


In the City of Blinding Lights

by Mizzy



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Not Season/Series 02 Compliant, Pining, Post-Season/Series 01, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-05 18:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6716065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[SEASON 1 COMPLIANT/NO SEASON 2 SPOILERS]<br/>Matt's come up with a long list of lies to cover for his night-time activities. Foggy pretending to be Matt's boyfriend wasn't on that list for a very good reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the City of Blinding Lights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [csichick_2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/csichick_2/gifts).



> **NOTE:**  
>  So real life did what real life does to my giftee and I ended up only getting their letter two weeks after the letter deadline. Which also knocked out the two weeks I'd carefully laid aside to write this fic too, which AHHHHHHHH. D: How that translated into "panic and write a >25k fic when I should have been sleeping", I do not know.
> 
>  **DEAR GIFTEE:**  
>  The fic is based on two things in your letter, one being a glimpse of Matt's night job, and the other remaining unmentioned here so that the ending isn't ruined. I hope you like it.
> 
>  **REQUEST/WARNING:**  
>  I HAVE NOT SEEN SEASON 2 so any vague similarities are accidental, PLEASE NO ONE SPOIL ME IN THE COMMENTS I WILL NOT BE HAPPY WITH YOU!!!!! THIS IS SEASON 1 COMPLIANT ONLY. (I swear I will fight anyone who gives me a season 2 spoiler. I WILL FIGHT YOU.)
> 
> #

 

 

One of these days, Matt is going to find a villain in Hell's Kitchen who doesn't hire a ridiculous number of henchman for every single attempted misdeed.

Today is not that day. Matt bends his knees and executes an upward elbow strike, catching the nearest guy in the softest part of his throat, but he doesn't have time to enjoy the wheezing sound that means his blow has hit home, because the next nearest assailant to his right lands a sharp dig to his ribs.

Matt crosses his left leg over his right, shifting his weight onto his right hip so he can twist his hips, kicking the rib-digger with his right heel. The guy does down, but another one automatically springs up in his place. Matt strikes with precision, jabbing him in his groin and abdomen in quick succession, following that with a strike to his knee, head and neck before knocking the guy to the ground with a sharp elbow strike to the back of his neck.

He turns, catching a glimpse of the crackle of black lightning at head height that means the Masked Marauder has turned away from the mêlée, and a wave of flame showing that the Marauder's taken down two of the World Motors' security guards, but two more guys clamber back into the fray. Matt doesn't have time to dally with them: he uppercut punches one under the chin, and boxes the other soundly around both ears, stunning the pair of them. It's easy to follow up then on a pair of solid mid-section kicks that sends them both crashing down face-first into the concrete. The metallic scent of their blood overwhelms Matt's senses and he shakes it off. It's time to go after the head of the monster now.

He can't see the distinctive movements of the Marauder, nor the tell-tale ink-bleeding patterns of his preferred weapon: the self-named "opti-blaster" device which apparently is designed to blind his enemies. Ha. If only the Marauder knew why it didn't work on Matt.

It must mean the Marauder's gotten inside the building, which means that's where Matt needs to be; he neatly dispatches one of his fallen enemies with a kick to the face as the mercenary tries to rise and block Matt's path.

The World Motors Center is imposing, one of the few buildings to survive the Battle of New York intact, and it's a shame: its size and budget-friendly architecture means it's always been an ugly scar on the Kitchen's skyline. Aesthetics aside, though, World Motors are also one of the Kitchen's biggest employers — it's definitely an asset to be protected. Especially when the Masked Marauder is involved.

The building is a block of shadow, squares of pale light where heat is leaching through the glass; the window squares are holding solid, not flickering, meaning that wherever the Marauder has gone inside, it's not one of the outside rooms. Matt can easily follow the distinctive scent that the opti-blaster leaves behind, though. It's more pungent than the metallic tang of blood. Like the flames Matt uses to sense his way through the world, the opti-blaster smells of fire: scorched paper, stale corn oil, hot gunmetal. It leaves a trail through the air better than any sort of breadcrumbs.

Matt moves quickly, slowing only to check the heartbeats of the two fallen security guards. They're alive. One of them is bleeding moderately, but not badly enough to need Matt to stop and apply pressure. The Marauder hasn't bothered to close doors behind himself, so he's going for a smash-and-grab approach as opposed to hiding his intended target. He probably hasn't conceived of the concept of failure.

From the few incidents so far involving the Marauder that Matt has successfully intercepted, Matt knows two things for sure about the villain — one, he plans his heists down to immaculate detail, and two, he rarely plans for Matt's arrival, despite the fact that the Daredevil is becoming quite the thorn in the Masker Marauder's side.

It's only a matter of time before Matt can de-mask the Marauder and take him down. Either the Marauder will run out of money and thus run out of the inevitable hoards of henchmen, or the amount of money to move to keep up with the Marauder's criminal lifestyle will make him — and his identity — visible on paper.

Except, it's probably not going to be this time. Matt's so intent on following the scent of the opti-blaster that he almost misses it — the faint sound of a couple of squad cars pulling up. He curses silently, then mentally adds that curse to the growing tally of things to mention to Father Lantom at his next confession, before speeding up, hoping to at least get a clue of what the Masked Marauder is after before the cops get in the way.

It's a good thing Matt isn't fuelled by his hopes and dreams.

A pair of cops pound into the lobby, weapons already drawn. "Stop right there!" yells one of Hell's Kitchen finest as Matt sighs. Superlatives are useless when the pool you're drawing from is limited. He moves at speed automatically to avoid them, pressing into where the flames are quietest — shadows are shadows even in a world of fire. Matt's shadows are hushed, scent-free, bland, smooth. Darkness for him is just a step upgrade from hush to silence. Matt slips into the shadows without noise, becoming part of them, hiding his darkness in the silence of deep corners.

The cops draw light in their path, though, with flashlights and their noisy progress. Matt won't be able to hide for long.

Matt hurries along, tracing the spider-crack lines of the opti-blaster because it's faster than listening for the hurt whimpers of the security guards that the Marauder is still taking out. The Marauder's heading into the deep heart of the building, but Matt catches a sharp burst of disappointment, and then a concentration burst of the opti-blaster smell. Whatever security the Masked Marauder's come up against, he hasn't prepared for it.

If it wasn't for the cops now flooding the building, it would be the perfect opportunity for some one-on-one time with the Masked Marauder.

It's not the perfect opportunity, but Matt's never been one to pass up a dented opportunity, so he speeds onwards, opening his senses to the oncoming room as far as he can safely control them.

The Marauder's good enough at what he does that he anticipates Matt's attack slightly; Matt should have braced himself a little better, but for all his impatience, it's not a bad showing. He always intends to be fully in control when he fights, but sometimes the adrenaline leads the dance. It's okay. Matt's trained himself to handle surprises.

Surprises like the blade the Marauder now seems to be carrying. Betraying his left-hand dominance, the Marauder stabs straight at him, obviously hoping to catch Matt off-guard, but people trying to stab him is kindergarten-level violence by now — with Turk Barrett still off the street, the flow of weapons has been downgraded to mêlée-weapons and kitchen knives. The Marauder's blade is more professional than the latter, although the handle betrays the fact that it - like the opti-blaster - is self-made.

Matt parries the stabbing attempt with his left arm, subtly sidestepping to the left and rotating his wrist outward so he can redirect the incoming thrust. He pushes and makes contact with the Marauder's left arm; the Marauder tries to pull away, but Matt cups his left hand, gripping the Marauder's forearm for control, and pinning it to the Marauder's torso so he can land some counterattacks. There's a reason that the Marauder hires bundles of goons; his close-contact fighting skills belie the fact his comfort zone lies elsewhere, even though he does have moderate skills in the arena.

Matt lands a strong counter-punch to the Marauder's throat and jaw, and the Marauder twitches his blade uselessly. Following up with another sharp throat jab, Matt secures the blade with his right arm and tossing it to one side, lands a left-handed fishhook into the space on the Marauder's mask where his eyes should be.

The Marauder grunts satisfyingly, dropping to his knees, but that's when Matt's time runs out. The air lights up, lava burns trailing through the air directly towards them, and Matt ducks the bullets gracefully. There's no time to linger, if Matt wants to get out with his skin and identity intact.

The rear of the World Motors Center is his best bet — the garages have a lower roof and Matt can vault to the Roxxon premises next-door, and with the access to the back buildings being gated, the cops won't have been able to fully surround the place yet, even with back-up inevitably on the way. Thankfully World Motors rely on the fact that the surrounding buildings are all heavily guarded, and they front load their security. Matt's able to deliver a couple of solid heel kicks to the next two internal doors, barricade the second one with a table, slide open a window that's not even locked, and he's out. It's child's play by now to scale up the side of the building. He bypasses the garage roof to go up to the highest point and he pauses for a moment when he crests the top to take in what's going on. The building shakes and lines of flame rise outwards from the north side of the building in the pattern of a sun burst — the Masked Marauder has taken out a section of the outer wall for his escape.

Matt lingers for a moment, hoping to overhear why the Marauder has targeted this specific building, but one of the Marauder's henchman wakes up from the sound beating Matt dealt out earlier, and decides to reward Matt by pointing and gesturing at the roof. Matt turns and runs, drop rolling down onto the garage roof, and it's the work of moments to leap over the fence and onto Roxxon's wider building.

From there, Hell's Kitchen is an open door for its resident Daredevil. The myriad rooftops stretch out like a shimmering jigsaw that's still broken in heart-aching stretches from the Battle of New York. Matt can't put the jigsaw back together the way he wants to, but he can stop the edges from becoming too sharp, too impossible to lock back into a whole.

Matt takes one look back at the chaos before leaping out into the night, the next piece of the jigsaw firmly in mind. He needs to figure out what the Masked Marauder wants with World Motors, so he can give Wilson Fisk a nice new roommate.

#

"I wonder if we could ever get clients to pay us in breakfast foods," Foggy wonders, diligently picking at his breakfast burrito.

"You should have stopped at the word _clients_ ," Matt says.

"Ha," Foggy says. "We know whose fault that it is. We coulda had class, Matt. We coulda been comedians."

Matt shakes his head, trying badly to repress a smile. "You do know you can just ask them to make you one without that in," he says, wrinkling his nose at the scent of avocado. He likes the fruit for more than the fond connotations, but now Foggy's fingers will smell of avocado all day, and the scent will linger around the office like a headache for a week.

"But that involves me being able to say more than—" Foggy stops himself. "Well, I'd like to say I manage single syllables around Glorianna, but _abstract monkey noises_ is a much closer description."

"So pay the price for being a coward and eat your greens."

"Are you seriously promoting cannibalism? I am shocked at you, my friend. Shocked and dismayed."

Matt would roll his eyes if Foggy was looking, but he already knows where his friend's attention is — at the window of the new deli that had opened on their street. More precisely, on the shapely form of the owner, Glorianna O'Breen. Matt doesn't even have to wonder what her face looks like — Foggy's spent four weeks now painstakingly describing her to him.

He sort of hates her, in the same way he sort of hates every woman who snags Foggy's attention away from their work.

"Ha," Matt says. Obviously too late from the way a blur of flame in his periphery turns his way — Foggy finally looking away from Glorianna's assets to further assess Matt's reaction.

"Heard a rumor that Daredevil was seen down by the business district last night," Foggy says. Matt doesn't have to decipher the flicker of light that always spells Foggy Nelson to him, because he can feel Foggy's breath warm on his cheek. More prominently, he can smell Foggy's breath, but that's a detail he refrains from mentioning. Foggy's esteem was always a little on the fragile side _before_ finding out about Matt's unusual skill set, he won't survive the blow of knowing that sometimes Matt can recognize Foggy just by the scent of his breaths.

"A little more to the west, actually," Matt says. "West of eleventh avenue."

"Glenn Industries? Roxxon?"

"The World Motors Center. If you believe the rumors."

Matt's favorite flicker of flame curls over the glow of Foggy's face like a firework exploding in slow motion. Foggy's smiles are the best smiles. "Baby, I always believe the rumors. Especially when they come with explosions."

"Baby?"

"Trying something new. Let me guess: don't."

"Great guess," Matt agrees. "Honeybunch."

The unpleasant tang of Foggy's breakfast breath changes direction and Matt tempers the scowl at losing his friend's attention. "Do you think Glorianna would let me call her baby?"

"Do you want to try it? Because I can tell she's practiced with that cleaver she wields to cut the food. There's a hum on the air that knives can make when they're handled by an expert, and she hits that note _perfectly._ "

"Ugh, no, super competent women skilled in violence are my kryptonite," Foggy moans. "I can never speak to her again."

Matt's pleased by the concept in a way that he doesn't want to examine, although for a second he flinches at _women,_ because if Foggy had used _people,_ then there might have been a chance, just a chance…

He shakes himself. No. No, that isn't right. Matt schools his thoughts, chastises himself firmly, and pushes the thought down, back to where he thought he'd buried all thoughts like it long ago, in the graveyard where all his useless college thoughts and facts still lie, ignored and abandoned. Those kind of thoughts used to be terribly troubling, until Matt realized the path he was on was incompatible with any sort of romantic relationship, and even friendship was more than he deserved.

"It's not like you really speak to her much anyway," Matt says, and then despises himself, because what kind of person takes glee in squashing their best friend's hopes and dreams? "We'll practice over lunch. Maybe you'll even manage a whole sentence to her."

"You are the best friend ever," Foggy says, slinging an arm around Matt's shoulders while his face slow-motion fireworks into another shining smile. "Remind me I said that if I ever try and insinuate otherwise."

"You insinuated otherwise just last week," Matt protests.

"Because you got pineapple on your pizza," Foggy says, indignant. "What was I supposed to say? There goes Matt Murdock, an amazing human being, eating fruit on his savory dinner, wow."

"And I think the first phrase we will teach you is, _Hi, Glorianna, I would like the breakfast burrito special without the avocado, please._ "

Foggy coughs and straightens like he's prepping for a morning in court. "Okay, let me try that." He coughs again and spread his arms wide, an arc of firelight like someone waving sparklers into darkness. "Hi, Glorianna, moon and stars of my life, could you bend your bounteous beauty into thine kitchen and procure with your delightful digits a fruit-free feast for the stomach as worthy as the feast you provide mine eyes?"

A graze of movement glances across Matt's cheek — Foggy exaggeratedly fluttering his eyelashes. Matt bodily turns in his direction, enough movement to make sure he has Foggy's attention, and he lifts his glasses down enough that Foggy can see his attempt at a judgmental squint. "Have you been reading the _Shit Thor says_ twitter again?"

"It's more addictive than Glorianna's breakfast burritos," Foggy sighs. He leans against Matt. "I'm a work-in-progress."

"I know, buddy."

"She did speak to me, though," Foggy says, perking up.

Matt's stomach twists in anticipation. He doesn't know what he's expecting Foggy to say, but his abdominals clench like he's expecting a slug to the gut. "Yeah?"

"We're bruise buddies," Foggy says, and he leans over and prods Matt in the face where he'd gotten punched by one of the Marauder's tougher mercenaries; the touch connects, because Matt feels too safe around Foggy to flinch away, and pain blossoms. "Of course, the reasons for our handsomely battered miens aren't quite alike."

"I don't know," Matt says, "I battled with goons, you battled with the photocopier, I think yours was the worthier battle."

"Alas, had I managed to communicate that to Glorianna, she may have agreed."

"What did you say?"

"Something dashing," Foggy says, "along the lines of _um, uh, you know, oh hey Mr. F._ "

"Mr. F?"

"Our landlord also frequents the same place."

"Is he any competition for Glorianna's affections?"

"I mean, I'm younger and blond, you'd think that would get me a headstart, but—" Foggy pauses, "and you can stop distracting me with our resident burrito goddess," he finishes, pressing a finger into Matt's chest. "World Motors Center?"

Matt shrugs, the movement stiff. Fighting handfuls of goons at a time is always exhausting work. He reaches out with his senses, checking the light flow of the area. There's no one in hearing distance that can eavesdrop and Matt would recognize the hum of an electronic device, and he specifically chose this bench to eat on from the cover of foliage which would stop anyone trying to lip-read from a distance. It's safe to talk business.

"The Masked Marauder."

"Again? What was he after?"

"Don't know," Matt says. "The NYPD interrupted our soiree."

"That's downright rude of the law to get in the way of some rampant lawbreaking behavior."

Matt shoves him gently with his shoulder and Foggy chuckles quietly. "He brought a lot of his friends to the party as usual."

Foggy doesn't even hesitate, dropping his beloved burrito to automatically check Matt over, his fingers automatically going to Matt's side. Matt has to suppress the automatic reaction to take Foggy down to the ground the way he wants to when most people touch him. Even Foggy triggers the impulse, but on a much gentler level than most people. "And beyond that beautiful shiner… Did they hurt you?" Foggy asks, his voice much softer.

"I'm fine," Matt says. "I promise."

"You said that last month and you had a diaphragmatic hernia from someone shanking you with a broken mirror shard," Foggy says, his fingers spreading automatically over Matt's stomach. "Forgive me for thinking your definition of _fine_ is a little imprecise."

"Not a single scratch," Matt amends. Foggy's hands reluctantly move back at that, but a sparkle of light close to Matt betrays that Foggy's fingers are itching to double-check, to make sure Matt is still in one piece. Foggy's light drifts backwards as he settles back into the bench, scooping up his breakfast again. He tries not to grin in triumph that Foggy's fingers stopped short of discovering the bruised ribs Matt acquired last night from one of the Masked Marauder's less inept hires.

"So when are we going to World Motors under the pretence of fishing for new clients?" Foggy asks. "'cause I presume you wanna eavesdrop with your freaky powers and find out if they know what the Marauder's after."

Matt wraps his arm around Foggy's shoulders and beams at him, full force. "We're going to get you saying actual sentences to Glorianna in _no_ time," he says. " _Baby_." Matt doesn't need to be able to see in any form in order to feel Foggy's shudder down to his bones.

"Let's never use that as a term of endearment to anyone _ever,_ " Foggy says.

"Square deal," Matt agrees.

#

Matt's almost surprised that they even get as far as the lobby, let alone given the instruction to wait. Everyone at World Motors is mostly just distracted, he guesses. Or Foggy just is _that_ charming when he's not reduced to monosyllabic grunts. He thinks it's the former, because Foggy's heartbeat upticks when he talks to the receptionist, and Foggy is notoriously incapable of talking coherently to people he's attracted to. It's how Matt knew back in college, while he was struggling with his sexuality, that Foggy's initial description that Matt was attractive was nothing but innocent commentary free from any real flirting. Foggy always fell apart in front of his crushes, but he never had trouble talking to Matt.

Before he found out about Matt's skills and his midnight proclivities, Foggy often complained about Matt's innate ability to hunt down the pretty girls. Matt can tell so much about a girl — her basic shape, her fitness level from her resting heartbeat, her brand of perfume, her preferred shampoo — but he can't tell if someone is conventionally pretty just from looking at the shape of their silhouette against the fire. He tends to rely on Foggy's judgment, listening to see if Foggy's heartbeat quickens on seeing them; it's probably why Foggy thinks all the girls that Matt has dated have been hot, because that's whose judgment Matt is using.

Foggy sits Matt down on the sofas in reception before going back to chat with the girl on reception, which gives him time to really focus his senses in the chaos of the daytime. While the building was mostly deserted at night, during the day it's a buzzing hub of activity, and it takes Matt a long time to sort out the sounds of engines and the sound of the heating and the thousand voices from the employees at work.

In the distraction of the previous night's attack, the girl on reception can't seem to get in contact with anyone. Foggy wanders back over to sit quietly with Matt. They're left waiting in the lobby for a good couple of hours, and Matt's starting to think that it's been a complete waste of time when he hears it.

" _I_ _want extra security on basement levels three through four. "_

_"You think he was after the XB-390?_ "

XB-390? Matt leans in closer to Foggy and repeats the classification, and Foggy immediately whips out his cell phone.

"Guessing it's just a new motor design," Foggy says, his voice carefully quiet. "They brought out the XB-360 last year. Are they saying anything about it?"

"Just that it's down on a basement level and security's being increased," Matt says. He tries to focus his senses again, but the sound of repairs to the outer wall the Masked Marauder blew out block his attempt. "Something about… Potentially explosive?"

"So he wants it as a weapon," Foggy says, his displeasure darkening the light around him for a moment. "Anything else?"

"The drilling's too distracting," Matt says, wrinkling his nose.

"Do you wanna leave?" Foggy asks. "Maybe we can persuade Karen to find the blueprints to the building, discover how the Marauder could bypass their security, or— Have you stopped listening to me?"

"For a good reason," Matt says, his body tensing. He pushes his senses out further than he knows is going to be comfortable, and for a moment the fire and the clamor is overwhelming, painful, but determination clarifies everything, and the flames are sharp and exact. "Drop the business card, go. Wait for me on the corner of 46th, near the booth in Gotham West Market that does the shrimp you like. If I'm not there in an hour—"

"—get Claire," Foggy says, grimly.

Matt would rather Foggy just leave the area entirely, but he knows Foggy won't do that. It's the safest place and plan he can think of right now. "Go. Now."

Foggy's fingers graze Matt's forearm, a wave of white flame radiating out which betrays how much he wants to grab onto Matt, take him away from the place entirely, but he trusts Matt more than he should, because he does as he's told without further protest. Matt makes sure the receptionist's attention is elsewhere and he ducks into the empty toilets. It's a matter of minutes to shed his clothes and reveal the armor beneath. He rolls his suit into a bundle and stashes it in the top of a paper towel dispenser with his folded cane and glasses to retrieve later, and he turns his senses upwards.

The steady flow of air and the faint hum of fans had betrayed the existence of air vents in the ceiling, and that's what Matt pushes himself up into, just in time to miss a World Motors employee following him into the toilets. Matt crouches down onto his elbows and keeps his body low, moving quickly back towards the reception. He noticed the vent above the main desk when he and Foggy came into the building, especially the way air danced through the slits like arrows made of pure light. When he glances through, he's glad to note that the looming attack hasn't yet begun, and also, Foggy's distinctive heartbeat is nowhere to be heard, meaning he's gotten away in time.

Attacking in the _daylight._ Matt hadn't thought the Masked Marauder would even think of it, but why not? The company hadn't had enough time to enact its new security measures. The internal cameras were out last night and hadn't been fixed yet. _Now_ is the most vulnerable the XB-390 engine will probably ever be.

Or so the Masked Marauder will think. Because as much as the villains of Hell's Kitchen refrain from attacking in the daylight, the same can be said of Daredevil too.

The bus that Matt heard coming in pulls right up to the front doors of the World Motors Center — and smashes right through the glass doors. Matt drops down through the vent and straight into an offensive pose without even waiting for the receptionist to scream.

The opti-blaster in daylight is an even more impressive burst of inky spiderwebs cracking apart the fire, or maybe the Masked Marauder has increased its power, and it can't blind Matt the same way it does to other people, but it can get in the way of the new group of henchmen Matt has hurtling his way. He can make out from glimmering arcs of movement what he's up against this time. It's another battle with an array of long-range mêlée weapons — pipes, crowbars, a couple with long knives.

After the attack yesterday, the cops should have already had a presence here, but it's unsurprising that they don't — losing their corrupt colleagues cost the Kitchen's police department nearly half of their number. They can barely cover the main shifts, let alone any emergencies. The Avengers are supposed to be able to help, but not a single one has set foot in Hell's Kitchen since the Battle of New York, even with their new line-up.

That's why Hell's Kitchen needs Daredevil, as much as Matt needs Hell's Kitchen. More than. If he has to take down the bad guys one by one on his own, then that's what he'll do. The people in Hell's Kitchen deserve that from him and more. Matt's alone, but in his opinion, that probably makes this fight close to being fair.

Matt doesn't wait for all the mercenaries to crowd out of the bus. He dashes immediately into the fray, bottlenecking as much of them into the vehicle's doorway as possible. He's pushed back, but only a couple of paces. Mêlée weapons are as effective against Matt as projectiles. Less so, if he's being candid, but he doesn't want to encourage more guns being brought to play against him. Longer weapons leave patterns in the air, and the momentum brings a delightful light show to Matt's blazing world. He just has to dance into the silence, into the shadows, as the bad guys project their intent in neon fire-bright stripes around him.

One of the goons comes at him with a hockey stick. Matt sighs and rams into him. "No cross checking," he snarls. He grabs the stick. "Major penalty," he adds, before smashing the butt end into the guy's face.

Again the Marauder's strategy is to overwhelm Matt with sheer numbers while he escapes and goes after his prize. There's a scream in the background as the receptionist is hit by one of the Marauder's opti-blasts, and the spider-ink crackles of the attack leach faintly into Matt's battlefield as he dances with the light and lashes out with his sticks with precision. The next set of opti-blasts that the Marauder deploys, against a couple of daytime security guards running in to join the fray, does the opposite of its blinding intention: it allows Matt to follow the trails of the attack right to the center of the radius, right to the Marauder himself.

Matt turns to the nearest assailant with a large knife, who swipes at him in a large arc of light that tries to connect from Matt's right shoulder to his left hip. Matt ducks backwards and then shuffles immediately forward before jamming the man's knife arm, gripping tight onto his elbow. He shifts his center by turning his hip before executing a neat wrist throw, sending the man airborne, his body colliding with another attacker. When the knife guy lands awkwardly on the ground, Matt turns him, pins his arm, locks his wrist and takes away the weapon, soundly smacking him in the temple with the blade's handle. He straightens, dodges another couple of swipes, and uses the Marauder's next opti-blast to solidly locate him before hurling the knife with force. A solid grunt tells him that he's hit his target.

There's a roar and the Masked Marauder turns back to the main fray, distracted from his target. He hurtles towards Matt with a scream of rage. Matt tries not to grin as he's whacked soundly across the face by a baseball bat, because he shouldn't be so pleased that his enemy has lost control. He can't always predict his enemy's actions when they're unhinged, but wow, are they so much more _fun_ when they're unrestrained. He swallows a mouthful of blood and keeps going, resisting the urge to laugh out loud.

Sometimes when he fights, in the heat of the moment, he surrenders himself to sensation, to the shadows. It's why _devil_ had stricken him so easily to the depths of his soul. Because it could so very easily be who he is at heart. A devil. Irredeemable.

Well, if his soul is damned, Matt can at least take some idiots with him while he's careening down the highway to hell at high speed.

The Masked Marauder deploys a few of his opti-blasts into the fray, obviously disregarding the fact that he'll be taking down some of his own men with the blinding weapon and deciding that blinding Matt is worth the effort. The spider-web lances overlap each other to the point that Matt's world on fire becomes a latticed world of darkness and occasional stars made of flames. But Matt doesn't just need the fire to see. He's just as able to navigate with the feel of displaced air and the scents of his attackers and their pounding heartbeats. Even with the opti-blaster's attack lancing the air apart with fracturing cracks of pure darkness, the fight is an open book to Matt.

With that advantage in mind, Matt claws back a little of his self-control and focuses on taking down as many of his attackers as possible. Blinded by the opti-blasts, the mercenaries are swinging wildly, which makes it harder to dodge them in one way, because they're unpredictable. It also makes them easier to drop to the ground. He knows he's going to be successful when he hears the whining pitch of a SWAT team making its way closer to the building.

The internal cameras of the World Motors Center might be out, but the external ones aren't, and Matt needs to execute an exit plan now it's likely he's stopped the Masked Marauder from getting what he's come for. Thankfully he's started to become a little more prepared since the days of just flinging on a combination of what were probably dark clothes and just heading out. There's a small collection of weapons that are stashable on his suit that Matt's been building up. He's been careful to make them out of easily available materials. He wonders how the Masked Marauder will feel to know he's being thwarted right now by something where the main ingredients are a toilet roll, a party popper, some stump remover and some sugar.

Matt tugs out the device in question and pulls the ring, throwing it down, blinding everyone more effectively than the Marauder's self-engineered opti-blast helmet. Matt uses the confusion of the smoke to land a few more blows, and he can hear the SWAT team exiting the building and preparing to enter the building, so he uses the thick cover of the smoke to retreat.

He doesn't even need to exit the building. No one's in the bathroom, so he quietly backs through the door and retrieves his suit, cane and glasses from the towel dispenser, quickly backing into a stall. One of the henchmen must have gotten in closer than he'd realized in the fray, because there's a burn of pain that's making itself known now the adrenaline's effects are fading, and there's a damningly large gash in one of the sections of red on his costume. There's nothing much Matt can do, beyond ripping the lower half of his shirt and tying a chunk of toilet paper to his side. He buttons his jacket over it and hopes he can get to help before he bleeds through the material of his suit. Otherwise they'd probably try and get a look at the wound, and Matt's not exactly in a position where he can remove the Daredevil suit beneath easily.

When he's dressed, he sits on the toilet seat for a while, listening for the best time to make his exit. It's one of the SWAT team that finds him, escorting him out when he realizes who he is — Nelson and Murdock are common faces around the police department — and the frightened but unharmed receptionist makes a deep noise of guilt when she realizes she'd forgotten about the blind lawyer still in the building. Matt gives a brief statement and they take his details but they let him leave the scene afterwards, no one even suspecting a blind lawyer who'd been in the bathroom the whole time could have something to do with it.

He gets an escort to the corner of the road, promises he can make it out on his own, and only realizes someone is following him half a block later. It's a testament to how bad the wound probably is, and Matt's angry at himself for getting distracted by it. In Matt's defence, the man's heartbeat is softer than most. Pacemakers are troublesome contraptions when it comes to sensing people out.

Now Matt knows there's someone following him, he pushes all thought of his injury out of his mind, and keeps walking, gripping his cane tightly and scanning the area for a quiet space where he can step into and quietly deal with him if needs be. There are a few blind spots on the street coming up; the irony of that name and Daredevil's ability to manipulate them is never lost on him.

Checking to see if the guy is actually following him, Matt ducks into a nearby sandwich shop, ordering a bag of three sandwiches for the office and taking a couple of minutes to chat with the friendly sandwich artist. Now he knows he's listening for someone with a pacemaker he can sense the guy — outside the shop. Waiting for Matt.

For a moment, Matt actually has to swallow down the impulse to call Foggy to come and get him. He'd had to do that back in college when a couple of enthusiastic sophomores cornered him in the library and wouldn't leave him alone. Foggy would come in a heartbeat. That's probably half the problem. Foggy would follow Matt into hell if he asked. _And you're surprised why they called you the devil?_

Matt resists the urge to shake his head to physical dispel the thought. He takes the bag of food and heads outside. If someone's following him for a nefarious reason, they'll regret who they've picked as their target.

Resisting the urge for melodrama is one of the hardest parts of Matt's usual daytime masquerade. He would love to pause dramatically on the stoop of the sandwich shop and ask the shadowing man what he wants, but even a whisper of a hint that he's not just the dorkiest of blind lawyers is too dangerous. Alas, he'll have to save his melodrama for where it belongs: the courtroom.

Of course, there's a kind of minor dramatics that Matt can get away with on the sidewalk, with no one the wiser that it's intentional. And sometimes Matt likes to take the word _slapstick_ as literal as he can. He fakes a stumble, and the man following him is an amateur, because he doesn't notice Matt's slowed down; Matt takes the opportunity to reach out with his cane and trip the guy.

Matt's had a lot of practice with being the goofy, clumsy blind guy. He reaches out for the man, pretending to try and help him while surreptitiously patting him down for any concealed weapons. There's a scent of metal that Matt can't quite identify, but the guy doesn't seem to be carrying.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Matt says, affecting the expression Foggy calls his 'bewildered puppy face'. "I didn't, uh, see you."

Now he's closer, Matt can make out more identifying details of the man - he's about an inch taller than Foggy, and he's built like a brick outhouse, although his suit is obviously ill-fitting, because Matt can hear the threads pulling over his back, too-tight, and the man has to tug his pants back up as he straightens himself. Matt takes it in during the pause where the guy gives him a once-over.

"Murdock, right?" the guy says. There is something familiar about his voice.

"I, uh," Matt says, straightening himself out as if he's nervous. "I'm not sure—"

"Oh," the guy says. "Sorry. Frank Farnum. I'm your business's landlord."

Ah, the mysterious Mr. F that Foggy mentions occasionally, Matt thinks, before finishing the thought through, because _Frank_ Farnum? Matt gets stuck on the surname; Clyde Farnum had been the name of the man who tried to kill Karen in her cell.

"Any relation to—" Matt starts.

"Right, right, my assistant said something 'bout your colleague being almost strangled by my cousin. Nasty business, nasty business."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Matt says.

"We weren't close," Farnum says, and his voice is level enough that Matt can believe it. "Still, it's made me a little more aware of what's going on in our city, y'know?"

Matt smiles awkwardly. "I suppose so. And it's nice to actually meet you rather than you just being a name on our contract."

Movement creases across where Farnum's face is, probably a smile. The tension in his shoulders, a flat line of roiling lava, betrays the politeness of the expression, as does the way he shuffles on the sidewalk. Farnum wants to ask him something. "I'm sorry for getting in your way."

"I'm sorry for nearly killing you with my cane," Matt says, waggling it for emphasis.

"I can't imagine it's easy to get around without causing a little bit of mayhem," Farnum says. "I guess most folks like you would have a dog. You should think about that."

"Your carpets probably appreciate that I prefer to go around slightly maiming innocent bystanders instead," Matt says. Farnum lets out a barely audible snicker of a noise at the word innocent, which is a very interesting sound indeed and piques Matt's interest a thousand fold. The snicker means Farnum doesn't believe himself an innocent man. Which means now Matt has to figure out what he's feeling guilty about.

"Heh. True. Look— I don't want to sound stalkerish—" A scratching sound; Farnum scratching the back of his neck. "But I had an appointment with a guy at the World Motors Center."

"Oh, were you—"

"No, no, I got out of there before that whole trouble started. Caught the show, though, was getting coffee at— Never mind, you're not interested in my boring day," Farnum says.

Matt smiles to be polite, even as his interest is piqued further. Farnum's breath doesn't smell of coffee. Farnum's breath smells of day-old eggs and a sour yeasty scent which probably meant the guy had a beer for breakfast. Matt can't judge a soul who does that.

"I was trapped in the bathroom the whole time," Matt says. "So if you wanted the juicy gossip, I'm afraid I'm out."

"No, that's not it," Farnum says, although his tone changes slightly, like he is disappointed. "I was actually, uh, looking for your friend. Nelson."

Matt tries his best not to bristle. "Foggy? Is there a problem? Maybe I can help."

"Oh, no, it's just a lease thing I wanted him to look over," Farnum says. "He made an amendment to your original office contract and I had some questions— I agreed to them at the time, but I really wanted a second opinion, y'know? See if I need to add the same clause for my other tenants. I wanna be a decent landlord. Do right by you all."

Matt really wishes the guy didn't have a pacemaker; he'd love to have confirmation of his gut feeling, that Farnum wants something else. "Well, our office hours are a little abnormal. I'm sure if you call the number on our lease, our secretary Karen will at least pass a message on."

"Nelson talked like the two of you were conjoined twins. I guess I'm a little surprised he abandoned you," Farnum says. Yeah, there's definitely a hint of suspicion in his tone. Matt has to clench his fingernails into the heel of his hand to suppress the urge to swallow nervously.

"I sent him away because they were taking so long to meet with us and we had another client due at the office," Matt says, slowly. "I've kind of got the worst luck when it comes to timing. I'm kind of glad he wasn't there, actually. If he'd been in the lobby when the bus crashed—" He shudders, big enough for Farnum to see it.

"Yeah, of course. I'm glad I left when I did too," Farnum says.

It's another suspicious comment, really, and Matt carefully files that away in his head. Maybe it's best that Daredevil shadows Farnum a little for the next few nights. Just in case. Matt doesn't like to waste time on people until he has something a little more actionable than a bad feeling, but then again, Fisk had been nothing but a fart in the wind for a long time and look how that all turned out.

Matt and Foggy had been in the lobby for several hours, and Matt hadn't heard Farnum enter the lobby at all. It doesn't mean Farnum's not completely innocent — pacemakers can sometimes mask people to Matt for short periods of time — but it doesn't mean he's not someone to look out for. In a manner of speaking.

His side is aching pretty badly now, and that's not good — pain can sharpen or dampen his way of seeing the world, and this wound is starting to push him into the latter possibility. He needs to get rid of Farnum for now. Asking for help tends to do it with men like him.

"Well, I promised to take lunch back for the office," Matt says, shaking the bag of food in illustration. "You're welcome to come with me? Foggy will be back soon if he's not already there. Maybe you can make sure I don't try and kill any other innocent New Yorkers on the way."

"I hope you don't think I'm rude not to offer a blind guy my arm for half an hour, but I have another guy I gotta talk to," Farnum says. "You should think about getting that dog, though. I'm sure you know I'm legally obliged to not kick up a fuss, and I got a cousin who runs a carpet place down on tenth, should the worst happen."

"I'll keep it in mind," Matt says, smiling politely and trying not to think that blood is the most likely thing to get on the carpet at their offices. Especially if he's going to go around getting stabbed in the daytime now.

"Goodbye for now," Farnum says. "Maybe I'll see you later?"

"You'll forgive me if I don't return the exact sentiment," Matt says. Farnum makes the usual embarrassed laugh that Matt often receives when he makes a blind joke.

"Of course, of course," Farnum mutters and hurries away, probably so he doesn't embarrass himself any more.

Matt allows himself a moment to sag in relief. He's used the gambit of asking for help a few times in the past, and most of the times it has been successful in getting rid of them; most people don't like to be so inescapably confronted for an extended time by a disability. Well, if Farnum had accepted, Matt might have gotten back to the office more quickly. And found out what Farnum wanted with Foggy. He doubted it was purely to ask about a contract sub-clause.

Or maybe Father Lantom is right about yet another thing, and Matt's extended proximity to evil is causing him to find evil everywhere.

#

Matt's been so distracted by Frank Farnum that he nearly forgets where he told Foggy to meet him. Thankfully he makes it to the corner of 46th a minute before Foggy's about to call Claire.

Even with the smell of shrimp thick enough on Foggy's breath to indicate he took advantage of his favorite booth at least twice, Foggy takes the bag of sandwiches excitedly and digs out the meatball sub on top.

"I was about to give up on you, buddy," Foggy says, opening the wrapper and sighing happily at the lack of fruit in his savory food. "What happened?"

Foggy won't move until Matt takes his arm, and as they walk along the sidewalk, Matt gives him as brief a summary as he can of the events, omitting some of the most painful parts, and pausing when he hears Foggy make a sound at Farnum's name.

"Any relation to the guy that tried to kill Karen?" Foggy asks.

"Apparently," Matt says. "He said they weren't close." The wound to his side twinges, making him wince.

Foggy misinterprets it. "You don't believe him?"

"No, I guess I do, but I couldn't listen to his heartbeat to be sure."

"Good. That shit's still creepy, Matt." Foggy's pace slows just a little. "Aren't we going back to the office?"

"Just making a pitstop at my apartment," Matt explains. "It's probably best I don't turn up bleeding to work." He opens his suit jacket just enough for Foggy to see the swell of blood which has probably worked its way through the cotton.

"Jesus, Matt," Foggy breathes. Matt inhales the comment he wants to make on Foggy's language; Father Lantom is a terrible influence. "Shouldn't we be going to the ER? Do you need me to call the hot nurse after all?"

"Feels like it's just a surface wound."

"I really hate some of our conversations, sometimes," Foggy mutters, but moves with renewed purpose now that he knows where they're going next and why.

When they get into Matt's apartment, Foggy insists on seeing the wound in full, and backs up immediately, muttering and flailing dramatically about his life and how he should have made better choices. Matt agrees with him indulgently and pulls out the tin of first aid stuff that he used to patch his father up with.

"Ugh," Foggy says, "nope, nope, this isn't what I signed up for."

Matt swallows and holds back the words that Foggy didn't sign up for anything. If his best friend was anything approaching sane, he wouldn't be anywhere near Matt.

If Foggy was anywhere near sane, he probably wouldn't have been friends with Matt in the first place. Matt can briefly imagine a world where he and Foggy were nothing more than barely polite roommates. The idea stings.

"You don't have to stay," Matt says softly, ignoring the fact that he probably means _you should leave and have nothing to do with me._

Foggy doesn't hear him. He never hears it, even when Matt's muttering straight-out that Foggy shouldn't have anything to do with him. "Are you kidding? Yes I do, you could bleed out on your own damn couch, and then how would you feel that you made your best friend weep over your dead body? Pretty damn freaking guilty, that's what," Foggy says, pacing back and forth in front of where Matt's seated on the couch.

"I'd be dead," Matt points out. "I wouldn't be feeling anything."

"Don't use _logic_ at me when you're sitting there all heroic and covered in blood. Are you sure you should be doing that yourself?"

Matt continues calmly laying out the needles and thread. "Relax, I used to do this for my dad all the time."

"When you could see."

"Yes. And after." Matt deftly threads the needle, not needing his sight, years of practice lending his fingertips the ability to do it without thought.

"I'm not sure I can handle this as well as I thought I could," Foggy says, voice weak, hissing through his teeth when Matt applies iodine to the deepest of what's actually three cuts.

"You don't have to—" Matt starts, and Foggy makes a high pitched whine for a moment, an aborted attempt to say something that he doesn't know how to say. He thinks about trying to say he doesn't want Foggy there, but that's a lie Matt doesn't know how to pull off any more. Even if it would be the best thing for Foggy to be a million miles away from him. Matt might err to self-sacrifice, but when it comes down to things, he's kind of a selfish bastard. "I don't need you to handle anything."

Foggy sags, full body, the flames of his shape dampening. Matt's struck by the feeling that he has to do something, say something, whatever he has to, in order to take that dampness away from him.

He forgets that Foggy has a complex sometimes about being needed. Rejection in particular is one of his weak psychological spots. It's something that had been an issue back in college, finding the balance between indulging Foggy's love of being needed and useful, and enforcing the boundaries, making sure Foggy knew that Matt was self-sufficient and that he needed to be independent.

This is more an occasion for the former rather than the latter.

"The landscape's changed since Fisk went to Ryker's," Matt says. "I don't need a nurse. I need a friend," Matt doesn't need normal or super vision; he can feel Foggy's eyes on his, intent and emotional. "I got stabbed in the _day_ time. At somewhere I took my best friend to. I'm kind of flipping out right now."

Foggy laughs, the sound humorless. "You and I have a different definition of flipping out." He scrubs at his eyes. "I'm useless in this situation, Matt. I can't stab the people who stabbed you, even if I knew who that was, or even if I really knew how to hold a knife without stabbing myself in the process. And I sure as hell can't stitch you up, or get you to stop leaping around in front of mad men with weapons, so I don't know what you think I can do."

Matt looks in Foggy's direction, as close to eye contact as he can gauge. "Just talk to me," Matt says. "It takes my mind off the pain, helps me focus on the task ahead."

"What am I doing right now?" Foggy exclaims. Focused on his task, Matt can't see the flames of it, but he can feel Foggy waving his arms around nevertheless. "Interpretive dance?"

"I thought we had a rule about you dancing in a four hundred meter radius of me," Matt says. "As in, never again. _Never_ again."

"My dancing is a _pleasure._ "

"Much like your singing."

"My pride! It's wounded!" Foggy's clothing rustles as he folds his arms. "Anything else you want to insult me with?"

"How about your inability to use the English language near your crushes?" Matt asks. "Or is that too soon?"

"You've been mocking you for years about that," Foggy sighs. "It's okay, I've already taken my revenge on that."

"You have?"

"Your face," Foggy says, with a loud dramatic exhale. "Your face is my real revenge. All the jokes I've made for years that you're handsome are cruel cover-up for the truth we've been keeping from you. Sorry Matt, you're actually butt ugly."

"You're hilarious," Matt says.

"Well, you asked me to talk," Foggy says. "I can't help it if I've been conditioned to speak the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth."

"I was hoping for normal talk. Not a sub-par comedy routine. It kinda hurts to laugh right now."

"Define normal."

"Business talk," Matt says. He shifts and breathes through a flash of pain. "Talk legal to me."

"Uh, uh— An 'Incapacitated person' means a defendant who as a result of mental disease or defect lacks capacity to understand the proceedings against him or to assist in his own defense—"

"I meant _our_ business," Matt says, starting to stitch the biggest cut closed. He remembers doing this for his father like it was yesterday. It was much easier at that angle. He's lucky that it's somewhere he can reach; he's not sure Foggy would stomach doing this for him, and he can just imagine what Claire would say with the knowledge that he'd started letting his vigilante work encroach onto daylight hours. "Not that I don't appreciate that you've been boning up on the fitness to proceed statutes."

"It's going to be practically the only defense I can use to keep you out of prison," Foggy says.

Matt doesn't respond straightaway. Doesn't want to think about Foggy makes it sound like _when,_ not _if_. "Have you heard from Karen while we were out?" Matt prompts.

"She texted a few hours ago saying Clarke was gonna stop by for those papers," Foggy says, sounding distracted. Matt reaches out with his senses — Foggy's staring as he closes up the wound. Matt really should have sent Foggy back to the office already, but without Foggy, he might not have even had the strength to come all the way on his own.

A taxi. That's what a normal person would have done. Called for a cab. Matt hadn't even thought of it, but then again, it's not like there's a handbook encouraging vigilantism which comes equipped with handy tips and tricks. Matt had just accepted that Foggy would automatically help him.

It's something he's going to need to be careful of avoiding in the future.

"He's agreed to let us help represent him? How did you convince him of that?" Matt asks.

"While I'd love to take credit, I think it was more Karen," Foggy says. "She told him her story."

"She's speaking about it now?"

"Yup. Complete with loving descriptions of the ninja that saved her life," Foggy says. "Which, to be fair, nearly put him _off_ working with us. Y'know. If we get you to a point in your life where you need to be protected by a ninja."

"I'm not a ninja."

"I completely agree. Ninjas dress much better than you do."

"You might have a point. I wouldn't know."

"Karen embellished on it though, about how you believed in her and how we only take innocent clients, and he's stopped saying he should represent himself," Foggy says.

"Thank goodness," Matt says, with feeling. "Would you mind getting me a new set of clothes from my closet?"

"Trusting me sartorially is a very good move," Foggy says, already moving towards Matt's closet. "Even your freaky skills can't tell you this, but I'm a very snappy dresser."

"Trusting you with anything but ordering breakfast is a very good move," Matt corrects.

Another flash of sparklers across Foggy's face: a warm, wry smile touched with fond exasperation. "It's a good thing I love you, Matthew Murdock," Foggy calls back.

Something in Matt's core twinges and he brushes it away, focusing on not wincing at the flash of pain he gets from standing up; he pushes everything aside to focus on shucking his torn work clothes off so he can peel off the suit for now. It needs a stitch-up too before he can wear it out again, but he'll have to do that after work. If worst comes to worst, he still has four sets of his man-in-black clothes in the bottom of his father's trunk.

"I'm picking you out clothes that clash, by the way," Foggy calls out, his voice muffled through the wall, as Matt peels off the suit as quickly as he can. He tries not to leave his fingertips to linger at the tear in the material. Even though colors are lost on Matt, the tear will be in one of the red sections, which is good — although he makes his repairs on the inside, Matt needs the repairs to be as invisible as possible, and thread leaking through in the wrong color could show his vulnerabilities too clearly to his enemies.

"Too bad all my clothes are pretty much shades of grey," Matt says, carefully folding the suit and placing it temporarily in a hidden shelf under his couch. His apartment's a little cold, but maybe that's his bare skin speaking.

"There's a joke in there, a very good joke, but I am manfully resisting in honor of protecting you from my natural hilarity," Foggy says, his voice becoming less muffled — he's coming back into the main room. "Because—" Matt turns his head in Foggy's direction automatically in worry when Foggy stops talking for a moment, and his heartbeat does something _weird_. "Uh," Foggy continues after that weird moment, oddly clearing his throat. "Well, you know."

"I would if you made any sense at all ever," Matt says.

"Yeah, sorry," Foggy says, a scattering of light arching out when his best friend shakes his head. "Here. Clothes. So you can do the whole not-bleeding-in-public, law-abiding-by-day person routine thing. That you do."

"Thanks," Matt says, reaching out for the clothes hanging loosely from Foggy's grasp; the material sliding against each other makes a soft shushing sound, like wind through a wheat field. He takes the pants first, because standing around in his briefs is chilly on his legs. "Although I'm starting to think it's not just Glorianna — maybe we just need to tutor you in the concept of coherent sentences in general."

"Uh," Foggy says, his heartbeat skipping a whole beat. Matt has to clench a fist temporarily to avoid the surge of jealousy that Foggy's gotten to the point where just her _name_ engenders a reaction from him.

"Like a jury, or something. You know, our job."

"Well hopefully next time I have to present a case, my best friend won't be hovering around nearly naked and bleeding when it happens," Foggy says, low and fast.

"Relax," Matt says, both as a conversation softener and literally, because Foggy's heart rate is a little quicker, probably from the bleeding part of the equation. He starts to climb into his pants, focusing on keeping his balance, because Foggy enjoys him falling over while trying to get dressed way too much. Matt sadly has years of experience to back that up. "I'm not bleeding out any more. If I'm bleeding right now, it's internal, which is where blood's supposed to be."

"If that," Foggy says, an edge in his voice which shouldn't be amusing but kind of is, "is supposed to be comedy, then you have zero legs to stand on to call my comedy sub-par. Because that's not even a little bit funny."

"It's a little bit bad-ass, though."

"No," Foggy decides.

"Really?"

"Yeah, okay, it's totally bad-ass," Foggy says. "Now hurry up and get dressed while I finish flailing at the sight of your blood again." A slapping sound and a ricochet of light; Foggy slapping his own face with his spare hand. "Seriously, Matt, why wasn't your secret hobby something less bloody, more cuddly? Dwarf hamsters are supposed to be fun to own."

"Dwarf hamsters," Matt repeats. "I hardly think—"

Foggy's phone cuts through Matt's sentence, which is probably for the best. "It's Karen."

Matt pulls a face. "Hang up?"

"You want to voluntarily prompt another week of passive-aggressive phone slamming in the office?" Foggy connects his phone. "I'm copying your expression, by the way. I like it. Very fifth grade."

Matt sticks his tongue out, because it seems like an appropriate response, and listens in on the call.

" _You guys better be at Matt's because I've already tried your place,_ " Karen says, the clack of her heels echoingly loud over the phone line.

"Yeah, we had to stop by to, uh, get a thing," Foggy says. "What's the emergency?"

" _You mean beyond the fact that the place you told me you had an appointment had a bus crash into it? It's all over the news._ "

"Oh," Foggy says. "That. Wait— No mention of the Masked Marauder? Or the men with weapons?" He looks up too late to see Matt shaking his head viciously.

" _WHAT. What men with— Are you okay? Is Matt okay? What happened?"_ Karen's panic is so palpable that Matt can hear her heartbeat over the phone, which isn't always possible. While Matt can hear someone's heartbeat from up to five blocks away, last check, the electronic hum of the phone line makes this much more difficult.

"We're both okay," Foggy says hurriedly, "I got tired of waiting, you know me and long waits. Incompatible."

Matt's brain races. Why would the Masked Marauder and the mercenaries not be on the news too? Insurance?

" _Well next time I hear of your possible demise on national media I'll not hurry to find you,"_ Karen says, a hard edge to her voice, every syllable clearly enunciated. Karen does passive aggression particularly well, probably even better than Sister Phyllis used to, back at Saint Agnes when Matt didn't want to eat what she gave him.

He wishes he'd been able to see her expression when he did mail his supper to Africa one day.

"Wait, what do you mean— Where are you?" Foggy asks, twisting back to look at Matt, panic quickening his heartbeat this time, and Matt can understand the sudden gut-drop of a feeling.

Because that's why he can hear her heartbeat. She's close.

Too close.

" _Right outside,_ " Karen says. The electric hum of the phone call stops abruptly and Matt's door rocks with a knocking sound almost immediately.

"I'll hide these," Foggy says, throwing Matt's shirt and tie at him and barreling for the couch where Matt's bloodied cloths and first aid kit is sprawled out, gathering them up in his arms and heading for Matt's bedroom. "Put your clothes on and answer the door."

"Guys?" Karen's voice says faintly, this time through the door not the phone. Matt puts the shirt to one side and grabs his suit from its hidden alcove under the couch, not trusting that spot with Karen around, and he hurriedly heads for his closet and his dad's trunk. "Come on, I know you're in there."

"Because I'm an idiot who doesn't know how to lie," Foggy yelps through the arched doorway as Matt shoves the suit into the bottom of the trunk. "Shit, _shit,_ now I've got blood all over me, why the hell are you such a profuse bleeder?"

"Seriously, this isn't funny," Karen calls. Matt focuses his senses and winces when she actually kicks the door — obviously her hands are occupied. He closes up the trunk, pushes it back in the closet and throws his shirt on, buttoning it quickly and hoping for the best as he heads for the door.

"Coming," Matt yells. "Foggy, hurry up."

"I'm _trying,_ " Foggy says.

Matt tugs the sleeves down on the shirt, hopes that he hasn't made the wound bleed through his brand-new stitches, and opens the door, smiling too-widely at Karen. "Karen," he says, trying to stand so she can't come in. "Hi."

Karen, alas, is much too inured to him to pay any attention to his intimidation attempts. Daredevil might scare the living crap out of some people, and sometimes to Matt's sad olfactory senses this happens literally, but Matt Murdock — outside of a courtroom — is about as threatening as a bag of kale. She bundles right past him, arms bundled around a massive stack of folders.

It's a good thing. Matt's suddenly very aware that there's blood on his bare feet. He slides his feet, not stopping for socks, into the nearest pair of shoes he can reach.

"I couldn't wait for you guys to come back," Karen says, hurrying past him to dump the stack of folders on Matt's table. She drops them and turns to Matt, her heartbeat a little quickened. She smells a little like rage. "Clark didn't come by to pick up papers, he came to drop _off_ these papers. And I—" She stops, a hiccup in her heartbeat accompanied by a sweeping movement of her head. She's looking Matt up and down suspiciously. "Were you naked when I knocked on the door?"

"Uh," Matt says, because lying on the spot while in pain isn't his forte. He touches his shirt and realizes in his rush he missed a button, so his shirt is crooked.

Karen's arms sweep like a sputtering candle to settle at her hips before the space where she stands melts into shadow. She's good at standing stock still when she glares. "Did you stop for a— a lunch time booty call? While I was _worried sick_ about you?" Her voice deepens, her shoulders tightening in a clear sign that she's confused and angry all at once. "But Foggy said he was here— _please_ do not tell me you hooked up with someone with Foggy still in the apartment. Matt. _Matt._ "

"Uh," Matt manages, overwhelmed. Karen's disappointed voice is the _worst._ "If you'd just—"

"Where _is_ Foggy, anyway?" Karen demands, sounding lost. Matt empathizes, thoroughly.

"I'm here," Foggy says, a little quieter, a little more subdued than normal, and for one second Matt thinks, no, _no,_ Foggy's probably still covered in blood, and then Karen will know, Karen will have to know, and that's yet one more person Matt's risking even more—

Then he smells a few things, at once. Foggy's obviously tried to wash the blood off, for a start, because he smells like Matt's supposedly scent-free soap (the salelady lied about it being scent-free; there's a faint hint of almond and some notes of glycerine) and the damp smell of Foggy's usual deodorant but diluted by warm water, which is making the scent drift from Foggy's body like a hazy cloud. But there's something else he's done, and that's wrap Matt's relatively little-used robe around himself. The scent of blood is further away. Obviously Foggy couldn't clean out the blood in time, but he's come up with another solution.

"Oh my god," Karen says, a high pitch note of surprise in her voice. "I thought— I had no idea—"

"We're really sorry we didn't call," Foggy says, still in that gentle bewildered tone he affects when he's trying his best not to step on fifty toes at once. "The bus crashed into World Motors just minutes after we were in there, right where we were, and, y'know. Missing certain death or at least dismemberment by mere inches… We just needed—" A spark of fire; Foggy looking to Matt for help.

"A moment to breathe," Matt finishes, slowly sounding out the words like it's a concluding phrase of a defense.

"If I hadn't had a mad craving for shrimp, we'd probably both be dead," Foggy adds. It's a hell of a performance, Matt thinks. If Karen could hear Foggy's heartbeat, they'd be totally busted, but she can't, so she buys the act.

"Oh my god," Karen repeats, and she hurls herself forwards, engulfing Foggy in a hug. "And here I am chastising you both instead of just being glad you're alive." She detaches from Foggy and hurries over to Matt, also pulling him into a hug.

Matt swallows the sound of pain his body wants him to make and he smiles awkwardly while she pats his back.

"I'm so relieved," Karen says, and steps back from Matt. "But still pissed. Next time you nearly die, I— I don't care if you need to, uh— scratch an itch together—"

And the realization is like a train wreck in slow motion. Matt's just so slow today, too slow, he needs to find some serious meditation time to get his mojo back. Oh. _That's_ Foggy's plan? He thought Foggy was maybe making an attempt at a ' _we got covered in bus debris_ ' lie.

Karen continues, oblivious to Matt's inner turmoil. "—whatever, you text me, okay? Or you call me. You let me know you're alive. Or I'll wear a hole in the carpet, because I'm a pacer, and I don't think our budget can stretch to new carpeting."

"Got it," Foggy says. "Next time either of us are in mortal danger, text Karen. Unless we want the carpet aerated by anxious stiletto heels."

Karen hiccups a high-pitched laugh which is mostly made of relief. "I'll probably be an ass about this for a while. Warning you in advance that it's about the communication thing, not the—" She waves her hand and heat rises in her cheeks like a furnace. "Not my hot colleagues hooking up thing."

"Aw, she said hot _plural,_ " Foggy says. "I think someone's angling for a raise."

"I deserve one," Karen says. "Especially considering I'm heading back to the office to man the fort alone for the rest of the day."

"You are?" Matt says

Karen laughs and reaches over and ruffles his hair. "You both look like you've been through the wars, Murdock. Rest. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. I'll see you in the morning."

Her face sparkles as she shoots a wink in Foggy's direction, then she picks up the folders and hurries out of Matt's apartment. He hears a muffled giggle and her voice in the distance saying "oh my" in a breathy, amused tone. He stares off in her direction. How the hell did that ploy even work?"

"Well that was unexpected," Foggy says. His voice sounds thinner. "Guess we can't bring our dates around the office for a few weeks, huh?"

"What do you—?" Matt starts, perplexed.

"Um, I'm not having our employee think that you treat me like a cheap piece of meat, Murdock," Foggy says. "I'm premium real estate, buddy. Nah. We'll pretend for a bit like we're making a go of things, and then in a couple of months say we decided we work better as friends. Simple."

"A couple of months?" Matt asks, throat dry.

Foggy claps him on the shoulder. "I know, I'm worth a couple of decades really, but Glorianna's in my sights, dude. Let's go get you patchworked back up so we can enjoy our day of hooky."

Matt stands still for a moment as Foggy strides off to get the first aid equipment again. He feels like he needs to sit down. Sometimes Foggy's ideas punched harder than a thousand of Hell's Kitchen's burliest henchmen.

#

When they get to the office next day there's a cake. And balloons. Matt recognizes the circular spiral of light that accompanied the last balloon Karen gave him. It was a new experience then – it's not like many blind kids in religious orphanages got balloons – and even though it's not new now, it's still weird and odd and Matt probably shouldn't be so charmed. The cake smells like vanilla. It also smells shop-bought, which Matt is grateful for – Karen only knows the one recipe. Everything else has the habit of turning out a little... dubious.

"A hippo and a _congratulations on your bat mitzvah_?" Foggy laughs under his breath and punches one of the balloons, sending a spray of light around the room. "Karen, you shouldn't have."

"There's a surprising lack of _congratulations on coming out to your hapless employee_ balloons," Karen says. "Also, I couldn't fit that on the cake."

"The cake is iced and says _congra_ ," Foggy describes. A strike of flame; Karen punching him in the shoulder.

"I'm just tryin' to be nice," Karen says, and she beams at them both before leaning in and kissing them both on the cheek, one after the other. "Now I gotta go out and refill the tea and coffee, you boys gonna behave when I'm gone?"

"I like your sassy salaciousness," Foggy says. "Can we make out on your desk while you're gone?"

"Don't you even _dare,_ " Karen hisses, grabbing money from the office kitty and heading for the door. "And if you do it in one of your offices, open the window afterwards."

"Yes, ma'am," Foggy says, laughing under his breath as the front door slams. "She's a riot, huh?" He turns and catches a glimpse of Matt's expression. Matt's never seen his adult face, obviously, but his dad used to say he had a resting bitch face as a kid, so, it's probably not the nicest expression on his face. "Buck up, my devilish lawyer, the world isn't ending today."

Matt huffs and tries to smile, but the attempt fails. Foggy sighs and moves in closer, bumping Matt with his shoulder.

"It's just temporary, dude," Foggy says, his voice low. "And I know what Karen thinks… well she's gotta be thinking you're slumming it, but—"

"Oh, hey, no," Matt says. "You're a catch. You've informed me so about three hundred times since we met."

"Damn straight. Or, damn bisexual?"

"Don't damn the bisexuals, Foggy, it isn't nice."

Foggy laughs, bumping him again with his shoulder, the gesture companionable.

"She just seems so--" Matt starts, and sighs. "I just-- it's really hard lying to her."

"You?" Foggy snorts. "Reluctant to deeply deceive those closest to you? _You?_ "

"Okay, point taken," Matt sighs.

"Because I can think of a better lie," Foggy says. "I could tell her _I'm_ Daredevil. Do you think she'd believe it?"

Matt snorts. Foggy smacks him jokingly, but he's careful to miss where he knows Matt is hurt.

"I heard that," Foggy says, "and I'm disappointed in your lack of faith." He leaps forward, striking a pose. "I am a mighty warrior, dispatching foes, left right and center," he calls, and picks up a brochure that's on the top of the mail pile. Foggy rolls it up deftly and starts swinging it through the air like it's a sword. "Huzzah, foul brethren of Hell's Kitchen, quail before me."

"Uh, that's not exactly—"

"Oh, no, you're more brooding," Foggy says, and deepens his voice. "Kneel before me, foul villains."

"Still much too flowery. And I don't sound like that!"

"Matt, you're missing a thousand opportunities if you're not getting your sassy bad-ass game on," Foggy says. "Do you make witty puns when you dispatch your enemies?"

"I threw a microwave at someone's head once?"

"A microwave?"

"I think it was plugged in when I threw it. It wasn't by the time it hit the guy."

"A _microwave,_ " Foggy repeats. "That can't be your best moment."

"Oh, one guy came at World Motors came at me with a hockey stick," Matt offers.

"And? What did you say?"

"No cross checking, major penalty?"

" _Nice,_ " Foggy says, leaping back and posing with the magazine. "No cross checking! MAJOR PENALTY!"

"I didn't yell it," Matt mutters, but he's laughing too much to maintain a façade of being cross.

"Missed opportunity dude," Foggy says. "We need to work on adding some melodrama to this crime-fighting shindig."

"Shindig," Matt repeats. Foggy's vocabulary tends to the overly-colorful.

"A mighty fine one," Foggy says, "with dashing heroes and fainting damsels galore."

"Don't let Karen hear you say that," Matt says, "or we'll get another lecture on gendering hero roles."

"Aw, but—" Foggy starts, but a voice cuts through whatever he's about to say.

"I'm sorry, am I interrupting?"

Matt startles, disquieted. He knows that voice - Frank Farnum. But he was so fixated on Foggy that— Jesus, he let the guy just open the door of the office and he didn't even notice he was coming in? He feels cold. Uncertain. Devastated. Sure it's just their landlord, but if it was an enemy - if he'd let an enemy just come in and attack and he's unprepared—?

"Hey," Foggy says, quietly, coming up to Matt's side and touching his arm gently, "breathe there, buddy. It's just Mr. F."

"I'm sorry, did I startle you?" Frank asks. He's keeping his distance, hovering near their now-open front door. Fuck, Matt didn't even hear it _open_. And yeah, he's totally going to have to go see Father Lantom in his lunch break. The internal swearing is a venial sin at best, but the rest of Matt's activities probably can't be covered by a routine act of contrition.

"Nah, we're oddly jovial lawyers, nothing much ruffles us," Foggy says, moving away from Matt to clap Frank soundly on the back. Frank makes a muffled noise and Matt winces on his behalf; he's been a recipient of some of Foggy's attempts at a friendly back pat. He's stronger than he thinks he is.

Matt hears Karen approaching even over his internal sulking at missing Frank's entrance; he can hear her heels before he hears her heartbeat, steady and calm even though she's jogging up the stairs fairly rapidly.

"What can Murdock and Nelson do for you today, Mr. F?" Foggy asks Frank as Karen re-enters the office.

Frank glances backwards at Karen before doing something odd with his face in Foggy's direction. It's probably supposed to be a smile but it's somewhat strained. Maybe it's the balloons, Matt thinks. Not many professional legal offices had a helium-inflated hippo bobbing along the ceiling. "Just a chat about those contracts from the other day, if you don't mind," Frank says. "And if there's a cup of java going, I wouldn't say no."

"Might even let you have some congra cake with it," Foggy says, gesturing at the cake Karen got them.

"Yeah, uh," Frank eyeballs the balloons again, "I see it's a happy bat mitzvah for one of you."

"Obviously me," Foggy says cheerfully. "Why don't you come into my office and we can talk over those contracts, huh?"

"I'll bring the coffees in," Karen says. "How do you take yours?"

"Say white if you value your stomach lining," Foggy says, which earns him a prod in the arm when Karen walks past him.

"Uh, black with five sugars," Frank says.

"No problem," Karen beams.

"You're a brave, brave man," Foggy says, heading to his office and opening the door.

"Before I forget," Karen calls over from the kitchenette, "we got a message last night, just before lockup. World Motors are interested in working with us. I got a message from their head of personnel, their legal department's tied up in contract knots right now, and they're looking to take on some outside help. Do you think they know you're criminal lawyers?"

"Maybe they're inclined to think they're going to need us," Foggy calls back. "Probably about the attempted thefts of the XB-390. Just put the message in my to-do pile, I'll get to it later."

"Sure."

Matt tries not to shuffle too awkwardly as Frank disappears into the office with Foggy. He's still rattled by not noticing Frank coming up to their office, let alone opening the door. Foggy's a distraction. He always has been, but—

"Hey," Karen says, and Matt withers internally, because he didn't even notice her coming across the room. What's happening to him?" You okay?"

"Yeah," Matt says, "just—"

She slides in next to him and holds his arm. "It doesn't change anything," Karen says. "You and Foggy have always been this— thing. You have a language of your own that I've never understood. Now I just got a name for it, that's all." She leans in and presses a brief perfunctory kiss to his cheek. "You're allowed to be happy, Matt Murdock. Foggy makes you happy. It's not a sin."

"Actually the church disagrees," Matt says.

"Then the church is a dummy face," Karen says. "And it's dumb."

"I'm going to head to confession after work. I'm going to have to confess that you said that."

"You have to confess other people's sins now?" Karen tilts her head. "I can confess my own shit. I mean, I don't. But I _can._ Uh. Even though I'm not Catholic, I think I can still tell my minister things."

"I don't have to confess your sins. But I do have to confess when I agree with them."

Karen grins. "You want a coffee too while I'm making them?"

"Maybe just the cake. I like my stomach lining intact."

"I can't believe I'm this nice to you and all I get is harassment and abuse," Karen sighs.

#

Matt gets a text on his way out of confession — Karen and Foggy cracked the Clarke dilemma moments after he left and are headed out for drinks to celebrate. He declines the invite and gets the usual 'your loss' text in response. He has Daredevil stuff to take care of. And the fact that Foggy's throwing him off his observation game to think about it.

It's just the thought of Karen buying the idea of them together that's rattling him the most. But then again, he's probably never been that subtle about his feelings. He stops by the nearest 7-11 to buy some toilet rolls and soda, and walks home slowly, keeping an ear out for chaos. A good excuse to punch his frustration away is what might really help.

Alas, no conflict arises when he most needs it, so Matt settles into his apartment and works on making sure his crime-fighting arsenal is in best condition. He's in the middle of sharpening one of the hidden blades in his boots when he hears a familiar approach.

Foggy and Karen are eight blocks away, but they might as well be in the next room. Foggy's heartbeat is as familiar to Matt as his own by now, a steady rhythmic percussive soundtrack that always calms Matt somehow. If he can hear the strong _bump-bump_ of Foggy's heart is means Foggy is alive and safe, and that means _everything_.

_"I understand if you wanna cut the night short,_ " Karen says, soft and musical. Her heartbeat is higher than Foggy's, a little slower. Nothing much ruffles her. Matt envies that. " _Don't miss out on my account ."_

Matt freezes. He's suddenly keenly aware of how large his apartment, and how small he feels rattling around in it on its own. The idea of Foggy coming up and keeping him company is appealing, more than it should be. But the whim is selfish. The night's still young, young enough for trouble not to yet be rearing its head in Hell's Kitchen, and Foggy deserves to stay out and party.

_"Yeah,_ _I—_ " Foggy's heartbeat hiccups. _"I should go and see my friend with benefits, huh._ "

_"Friend with benefits?_ " Karen snorts. " _Uh, you two are basically married at this point, let's be real about that. "_

_"If I was married to Matt Murdock, believe_ _me,_ " Foggy says, and Matt forces his focus away, his face flushing, because he can't— he can't hear something like that. He can't hear the joke that Foggy's going to quantify that with, he can't think about being married to Foggy, he can't— but he already is. Crawling back into bed late to find Foggy's reassuring presence already there, the sheets warm and inviting. All the mundane regular domestic things, made less dull by Foggy's charming wit and reassuring heartbeat. Getting to hold his hand when Foggy guides him down the street, fingers clenched and bodies pressed together. Taking that tiny space that Foggy and Matt have always had between each other and erasing it, forever.

It's not possible. Hell, even if Foggy lost his mind and hit his head and suffered a major concussion and even vaguely _wanted_ a tenth of a life like that… it wouldn't be fair to him. Matt breaks people. He takes good people and he quietly shatters them from the inside out. Foggy's a good person. Matt isn't. Sometimes the equation is that straightforward.

The front door clicks quietly open, Foggy using the key Matt gave him a couple of months ago.

"Hey," Matt calls, "I wasn't expecting you."

"That's so weird that you can do that," Foggy sighs, slipping off his jacket and sliding it onto one of Matt's coat hooks before padding into the room. "After drinks, we came walking by here and Karen nudged me and said she'd understand if I wanted to cut the night short. Couldn't think of a plausible excuse why I wouldn't wanna hook up with your perky ass, so—" Foggy spreads his arms. "—here I am, hope that's okay."

Matt's stomach feels tight and heavy. Of _course_ it was just that Foggy couldn't think up a good excuse not to come. It's not like he wants to waste his night with Matt. He swallows back the disappointment. "It's always okay," Matt says. He swallows back _I always want to see you._

"What you up to?" Foggy says. "I'm almost surprised you're even here and not punching drug pushers on chilly rooftops."

"Seems to be a slow night," Matt says, his voice rough, and swallows, because Foggy deserves better than to have Matt sulk at him. "And some of my, uh, nighttime supplies are running low. Do you mind if I continue—?"

"No, go ahead," Foggy says. "I'm already an accomplice just by knowing about you. Anything else, I can use Stockholm Syndrome as a defense."

Matt pulls a face, but pulls out his box of supplies and starts by tugging out the electric hob and balancing it on top of the nearest counter to his oven. He balances a battered pan on his speaking scales and starts to add the ingredients he needs to renew his smoke bombs. "You'd be a shoo-in for an insanity defense," Matt tells him, suppressing a smirk.

"Asshole," Foggy says, but it's fond. Foggy's stance is relaxed and his reassuring heartbeat is calm and slow. He's content, radiating with the emotion like a log fire on a winter's day, and that feeling softens the core in Matt that always seems angry, always seems uncontrollably aflame. Foggy's the only one who's ever been able to temper Matt's fire.

He wants to tell Foggy that, but is unsure of how to phrase it without it being too honest for either of them to handle. A lesser impulse is wanting to spoil Foggy rotten, something Foggy never has any patience for. Something smaller, then. "You want to order takeout? It's on me."

Foggy nods and automatically moves to the drawer of takeaway menus he keeps at Matt's place for when both of them are there and hungry. The two events often coincide heavily.

"Aren't you already cooking something, though?" Foggy says. His confusion is evident in his voice.

"I am cooking something," Matt says. "It's just not edible."

"But… powdered sugar. I thought you were making me cake."

Matt just grins, continuing to stir his mixture. "Since when have I ever made you cake?"

Foggy makes a noise in the back of his throat. "A man can dream."

"Well you can continue to dream," Matt says. "Hand me the pot of vegetable dye?"

"If it has the word vegetable in, it sounds like food," Foggy says, but dutifully moves closer and starts rummaging in the box of items Matt has on the counter. "What color do you want?"

"Pick one," Matt says, holding his left hand out.

Foggy picks up one of the jars and presses it into Matt's palm. Matt smiles when he reads the raised ink with his thumb. "Vigilante red," Foggy says. "I know that's your favorite."

Matt opens the jar and adds a few teaspoons worth into the pan with the potassium nitrate and powdered sugar, and he turns the electric hob on. He found out the hard way a long time ago not to make this stuff over an open flame. He turns the overhead extractor fan on, and Foggy starts flicking through the menus. "I'm hungry enough to eat anything," he says, because Foggy keeps pausing at the menu for Chen's, obvious by the slide of his fingers on the smoother papery surface of that one, and then looking at the others like he's not sure Matt's going to approve of his choice.

"When aren't you?" Foggy says, putting the other menus aside. "Although now I know how you burn so many calories, your impressive ability to use your food credits in college within like, four weeks, is less impressive to me now. I used to think you needed all that food to compensate for all that shaking-in-righteous-anger that you're so good at."

Matt makes a noise in protest.

"Matt _Shaking_ Murdock," Foggy teases. "Some days I thought you were going to rattle your skeleton right out of your bones."

"Stop mocking me and get with the food ordering," Matt says.

"Only because it makes me hot when you boss me around," Foggy says, and Matt tries his best not to tense up, tries not to focus in on Foggy's heartbeat to see if his heartbeat has changed… but it's just as steady as usual.

"Idiot," Matt says, because he's not sure he can manage a full sentence. It's stupid that these thoughts keep pushing back up into his brain. He was supposed to be over his stupid college-old crush on Foggy. It's just the whole pretending-to-date scam. It's messing with his head, big time.

"Your idiot," Foggy says, warm and fond and distracted, and it takes all of Matt's control not to just full-body shiver at that. Foggy doesn't even mean it as anything but teasing born out of the situation. "I'm ordering Chinese food. Just so I can watch you eat it and not be amazed for once at how deftly you use chopsticks."

Foggy calls the order in, and Matt finishes melting his mixture, pouring it carefully into the molds he's already made. Foggy's made about a million Batman jokes since finding out his secret identity, but Batman's budget when it comes to defensive weapons is a mile above Matt's arsenal. His smoke bomb molds are cardboard toilet roll tubes, for crying out loud.

He lingers on the thought, still so happy that Foggy's around to make the terrible Batman jokes. The fact that Daredevil is Matt's secret identity is perhaps the final point that won Foggy back over to his side after the potentially shattering reveal. Daredevil is the fictional identity, the artificial one. Matt is the real person, the true identity below the façade, and Foggy's always known the real him. All Matt ever really hid from Foggy was how deep his righteous anger burned, and how far he was willing to go to burn a little of the hell out of Hell's Kitchen.

Matt quickly puts rods in to cool the mixture, and a smaller rod to leave room for the fuse, and balances on a stool to start constructing the holders.

"Okay, sign me up to be a more active accomplice while we wait," Foggy says, taking the chair next to Matt and leaning over, peering at Matt's box of items curiously. "What are we making?"

"Smoke bombs."

"Smoke— You know how to make smoke bombs?" Foggy's voice pitches amusingly high. "Please console my wounded heart and affirm that this is a more recent skill and not something we could have been doing throughout law school. _Please._ "

Matt refrains from answering and pulls out a bag of party poppers.

"Your silence is very damning, my friend," Foggy says.

"I need you to use the cardboard squares, use the toilet rolls— draw around the end of the roll and cut them out," Matt says.

"I feel like we're in camp and doing crafts together," Foggy says. "Did you ever get to go to summer camp? Did they do a camp for blind kids? Or was it secret ninja camp? Wait, I got it, junior heroes in training camp."

"Option two, secret ninja camp," Matt says, starting to cut open the party poppers, removing the papers and leaving the top intact.

"Shit, really?"

"No, dumbass," Matt says. "Saint Agnes didn't exactly have the budget to send its kids out during the summer. Not when we could spend hours reading the bible instead."

"Sounds like so much fun."

"It wasn't all that bad," Matt says. "Mostly I spent the time trying to learn how to deal with the world coming in from all corners. Until I learned how to focus my senses, it was like— like when you get lemon juice in a cut. Except I couldn't stop the lemon juice pouring in. Stick helped, for a while, but even after he left— It took a long time to learn how to just walk down the hall without feeling like the walking dead."

There's a moment of silence while Matt tries not to remember how much it hurt, how overwhelming it had been. He also ignores the wave of sympathy he can practically _feel_ coming from Foggy.

One of the best things about Foggy, among about a million other things, is that Foggy knows not to express it in words. Matt knows how he feels, and Foggy knows that's enough.

"Once you'd blocked the lemon…" Foggy says, carefully using the same metaphor and extending it like they learned to do in college, while they were pairing up for mock court cases. It was a skill that led Foggy to declare them drift compatible when _Pacific Rim_ came out. Matt hadn't laughed, although it warmed him to know Foggy thought so. It had mostly just freaked him out though, because being drift compatible meant letting another person into your head completely, and Foggy was too good to be exposed to the deepest part of Matt's mind. "Did you make any friends there?"

"Off and on," Matt says, concentrating on splitting some visco fuse to attach to the party popper igniter. "The orphanage had a fairly fluid intake, there weren't too many of us that stayed permanently. Most kids went out to foster families. Some came back. One of my friends spent the whole time she was there boomeranging in and out. I guess you could say we were friends, but she got me in more trouble than not."

"What was her name? Ooh, was she your first _crush_?"

"No, no way. She was younger than me, for a start," Matt says. "And it's hard to take a girl with the surname Poots seriously."

"Poots? Seriously??"

"Mary Sue Poots," Matt confirms.

" _Poots._ That's brilliant. You should look her up again. With a name like Poots, she shouldn't be hard to find."

"I tried," Matt admits. "There isn't even a single trace of her on the web. It's like she was completely wiped from existence."

"I'm sorry," Foggy says. "For not being able to connect with someone from your past _and_ that you befriended someone with the name Poots."

Matt snorts. He wonders where Mary Sue Poots is now and what she's doing. Probably saving the world single-handled, or at least causing sizeable tremors in society. She'd definitely been very motivated when they were kids; Matt was sure wherever she was, she was probably doing it with gusto.

Foggy's quiet for a while as he concentrates on cutting out cardboard circles for Matt, and he watches Matt quietly as Matt adds the fuses to his smoke bomb mixtures and starts to use a battery-powered hot glue gun to glue the components together.

"Seriously, though," Foggy says, watching Matt take the cardboard circles and finish off the grenade designs. "Smoke bombs? You're using toilet roll smoke bombs to take down the criminal elite of Hell's Kitchen? Let me repeat that for added dramatic effect: you are taking down criminals with _toilet rolls._ "

"I am the night," Matt says, solemnly.

"You," Foggy says, "are the weirdest fake hook-up I've ever had in my life."

Matt just grins at him. Sometimes that's the best option.

#

When Matt comes out of confession, he's wrapped up in guilt and words of contrition, but it doesn't stop him from recognizing Karen's outside waiting for him. Father Lantom, walking Matt out of the church with muttered words of forgiveness and retribution in equal measure, brightens on seeing her, his heartbeat quickening in anticipation of luring a new member of the public into his flock.

"Morning, Matt," Karen beams. "Foggy sent me out to fetch breakfast and you. He made sure that I should tell you that breakfast was the priority though."

"I'm surprised he's skipping the opportunity to see Glorianna," Matt says.

Karen tilts her head. "Who?"

"She owns the café we go to. He's had the biggest crush on her all year, haven't you heard him wax lyrical about it?"

"I, uh, he probably thought it—" Karen looks at Father Lantom, who's watching them curiously. "It might not be appropriate considering you and, uh—" She falters.

Matt's stomach swoops. Yeah, Karen thinks he and Foggy are a thing. It's probably super weird that Matt's maybe encouraging Foggy to have a crush on a woman. "Uh, Karen, this is Father Lantom. Father, this is Karen Page, Murdock and Nelson's intrepid, uh, well she started out doing admin and now she pretty much holds the whole place together."

"Charmed to meet you," Father Lantom beams, leaning over and offering Karen his hand. "Do you live in the area, Karen?"

"Yes," Karen says. "Only been here a few months, not, uh, not long enough to find a church yet, I guess."

"Karen's an Episcopalian, Father," Matt breaks in, saving Karen from her embarrassed rambling.

"Well, we can't all be perfect," Father Lantom beams. "All of God's children are welcome in my church at any time. Just drop by if you feel like a change."

"I will do," Karen says, enthusiastically nodding.

"Let's go get some work done before he tries to convert you in the street," Matt jokes.

"I would _never,_ " Father Lantom sighs. "Not out in the cold crime-ridden streets of Hell's Kitchen when there's a perfectly warm and comfortable church building with a cappuccino machine ten steps away."

"They're saying the weather's going to be awful tonight," Karen says. "Might scare some of the crime away?"

"I like your optimism, Ms. Page," Father Lantom says. "Don't let any of Matthew's grumpiness rub off on you."

"I try my best," Karen says, smiling at Father Lantom and taking Matt's arm to lead him back to work. "He seems nice," she says, " _Matthew_."

Matt makes a sound of distress. "The nuns used to call me that," he sighs. "Makes me feel like I'm ten years old again."

"You sometimes look like a lost little ten year old, if that helps," Karen offers.

"Surprisingly, no, it doesn't."

Karen's still teasing him while they order the burritos, and Glorianna asks after Foggy, which apparently does something to Matt's face because Karen can't stop snickering under her breath, and yet again, Foggy's a distraction, even when he's not there, because they're still laughing together when they get to the floor their office is on, and it's Karen that notices something is wrong before Matt does.

"That's funny," Karen says, "the door's ajar. That's not normal."

It takes Matt a moment to register what's really going on and he regrets that, because he should never be blindsided (pun excused, because he's having a shit day) by violence just because it's happening in one the places he'd thought was safe. Who the fuck even attacks somewhere like a legal office?

He's slow to realize what's going on, but not slow to react once he realizes what is happening, and Karen yelps as Matt shoves her to one side and goes into action.

He doesn't have time to say anything soothing to her.

He counts five heartbeats, throws himself through the door, and slams it shut behind him. He gets a glimpse of three guys looking his way before he reaches out and flips the light switch off.

Thank goodness that they installed the fully opaque blinds a couple of months ago. Not that Matt had had this scenario in mind, but a few of their clients were sight-impaired, lured in by Matt's blindness, and light sensitivity was a problem for them. It's a boon now, because in the darkness, Matt's got all the advantage.

It takes quick work for Matt to take out the guys looming over Foggy. To Foggy's credit, he had managed to block himself between the wall and a chair, and he doesn't smell or sound injured, which is enough for Matt to focus and take out the guys.

Foggy's still yelping when Matt gets to him and his reassuring heartbeat is _not_ reassuring, because it's racing a million miles to one; Matt holds him still by the top of his arms and ducks the flailing hits Foggy tries to make when he realizes someone has hold of him. "Foggy, it's me," Matt hisses. "I need you to calm down and let me know what happened, Karen's already calling the police and they're two blocks away."

"Matt?"

"Yeah," Matt says. "I'm gonna let go now. The guys are unconscious, you're safe."

"Okay," Foggy mumbles. "Uh, I was working in my office, then the door slammed open and I only had time to stand up, three guys came in and dragged me out here and tried to rip my clothes off, so I struggled and got behind the chair and that's when you came in and ninja saved my ass."

"That's when Daredevil came in," Matt says.

"Uh, I know your secret identity," Foggy says, "but it's scaring me that you're calling yourself it—"

Matt steps over the unconscious bodies of the mercenaries to open the blinds and yank the main window open. "Daredevil came in through here and left out the same window," Matt says. "You barely saw him."

"Oh," Foggy says. " _Oh._ Yeah, that's what happened."

Matt drops to his knees and starts to rummage through the pockets of the nearest two goons. Nothing. No ID, no phones, _nothing_. He moves to the next unconscious body.

"Did they say anything?" Matt asks. Only one of the men has anything - a photograph in his pocket. There is a circle in raised ink. Matt feels cold but holds it out to Foggy. "You?"

Foggy's dependable heartbeat hitches an answer. "My face is circled," Foggy says. "But-- I didn't hear them say anything. I was too busy being terrified out of my wits."

The next few hours are a blur - the door being broken up and the police coming in, Brett thankfully leading the charge, and Matt couldn't tell you afterwards what had really happened, because his brain is jumbled with _Foggy would have died_ and _you could have gotten there sooner if you'd paid attention and listened in earlier_ and _what the hell were the guys after anyway._ Matt's mostly quiet while Foggy and Karen list potential enemies from their legal work. The guilt is choking. There are even more potential enemies that might want to attack Murdock and Nelson. But it's the fact they targeted Foggy that is the part which makes it more likely it's some criminal thug that wants to punish Foggy for something legal that they've accomplished.

Matt's furious. He needs to punch someone. Punching out five guys isn't nearly enough. He's glad that Brett didn't look closely at his knuckles, because Matt bruised and bloodied them a little in his rage.

After four hours of taking witness statements, the police finally let Matt and Karen go, although Foggy's still in the office talking wildly. Matt's only able to stay calm throughout because he can hear Foggy's heartbeat and he knows Foggy's uninjured.

The police believe the story that Daredevil came in and punched the bad guys out, thank goodness.

Karen and Matt sit in the hallway waiting, the breakfast burritos abandoned and cold by Karen's side.

"I can't believe you went in there and fricking locked me out," Karen hisses, jabbing a finger at Matt's chest. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking I promised that I would always keep you safe," Matt flings back, probably a little loud, but it was a promise he's always wanted, need to keep, and he won't regret anything he does in the pursuit of it.

"I can take care of myself," Karen continues, arms crossed. "I'm not some damsel in distress who needs to be saved."

"I panicked," Matt says. "It won't happen again. I'll let you in the room with the raging fight and allow you to be stabbed by office furniture."

"Good," Karen snaps. "See that you do."

The argument is patently ridiculous and they both realize it at once, giggling a little. Karen leans against his shoulder and Matt sags against the wall. Eventually Foggy comes out, rubbing his head and sighing before he joins them on the floor by the wall.

"The office is still a crime scene," Foggy says. "But on a plus side Brett let me keep my laptop?"

"We've got the deposition for Clarke in two days," Karen says. "Could be this attack was to slow down our prep for that. Maybe we can find a coffee shop to work in?"

Matt doesn't like the idea of being in public, but he doesn't like the idea of Foggy and Karen going home alone, either, and their places aren't big enough for the three of them to work comfortably. His apartment is defensible. "We can use my place," Matt offers.

Foggy shoots him a look that Matt can't see well enough to decipher, but it's a mass of spiraling light that makes Matt feel dizzy.

Their walk to Matt's place is subdued and quiet and made worse when the rain starts falling midway. By the time they get to Matt's apartment, all three are drenched through, and there's an awkward ten minutes while Foggy raids Matt's closet for clothes for them all to change into. Karen is swamped in an old t-shirt and sweats, and Foggy opts for just a stretched-out t-shirt and his boxers, muttering about being comfortable if they're working from home. Matt excuses himself and pulls on a pair of black combat pants from his man-in-black days, but wears it with a Fogwell's Gym shirt that used to be his dad's. He feels like he needs something comforting around him. If he fills up the pockets of the combat pants with a couple of knives and a smoke bomb or two, Foggy doesn't need to know.

Karen's grumbling stomach interrupts their work. She peers sadly into the burrito bag and make a face. She glances at Matt's massive windows. "Do you think anywhere's still delivering in this?" she asks, mournfully.

"I have enough food in to make us something," Matt says, rising and moving towards the fridge. Karen startles up from her seat, but Foggy puts a hand on her shoulder.

"Nah, you totally need to sit back and watch this happen," Foggy says. "Matt's an independent guy, y'know. I think he said that phrase about a million times our first week at college."

"Shut up," Matt mutters, warming at the teasing. He doesn't cook anything too complicated - just an omelet that he finishes under the grill, but Karen and Foggy eat it happily and demand seconds. It's during the second round of omelet that Karen starts being chattier, obviously finally forgiving Matt's weird actions at the office.

And of course, she's still processing the fact that she thinks he and Foggy are together.

"I thought at one point that maybe you were boyfriends," Karen says. "But then that massive fight happened and _Marci_ , and I— I kind of figured maybe you'd broken up or something."

Matt avoids Foggy's gaze turning hesitantly in his direction and focuses on eating. His cheeks feel warm. "It was a more personal matter," Matt says. "An, uh, old argument, of sorts."

"You don't have to tell me," Karen hurries to assure him. "What you two have is personal and I totally respect that and seriously, let me know if I'm crossing the line. I just happen to adore the crap outta both of you, and it's— it's nice to think about you being happy, that's all."

"I'm a fan of us being happy, that's true," Foggy agrees.

"But I'm not surprised you two are a thing," Karen says. "I mean, c'mon. Foggy talks about you constantly. And Matt's pining is kind of visible from _space._ " She giggles a little. "Is it okay if I use your bathroom?"

"Sure," Matt says, nodding in its direction.

"I'm just surprised you've gotten enough over your Catholic guilt to let it happen," Karen says, clapping Matt companionably on the shoulder as she rises.

"Father Lantom's easier to ignore than you'd think," Matt jokes.

"Thank goodness," Karen sighs.

Matt stares down at his plate, letting the scent of the food give him something to look at. The omelet remains seem unappetizing all of a sudden.

Foggy's staring at him. That's why he doesn't want to look up. When it's clear Matt's not going to say anything, Foggy's the one to break the silence. "Visible from space?" Foggy asks, in a breathy sort of voice, and, oh, _shit._

"I—" Matt starts, his voice cracking, but the toilet flushes and Karen strides back into the room, and Matt loudly asks her if the cistern behaved itself, and Karen — not knowing she's just broken up the most awkward moment to ever awkward — cheerfully starts regaling them with a list of hilariously bad bathrooms in her long list of terrible rented apartments, and the moment is thankfully forgotten.

Food abandoned in favor of working again, the three work comfortably around Matt's dining table until night begins to fall, edging darkness into his apartment. Hail has joined the rain, bouncing against the window in a staccato offbeat rhythm, and Matt's comforted only by the reassuring thump of Foggy's heartbeat, stronger than the percussive sounds of the weather. Matt doesn't want to break the moment, but he can feel it stretching, thinning. It's comfortable but it's fake. Underneath they're all still worrying over Foggy being attacked.

The moment's broken by the tinny melodic shrieking of Karen's phone.

"Excuse me, gotta take this," Karen says, and walks off with her cell phone.

Foggy moves in closer before Matt can listen in. "Hey," he says, softly."At least the weather probably is too bad for bad guys, right?"

Matt shrugs. "I'll patrol anyway, but I'd be surprised if the Masked Marauder tried anything tonight."

"You're gonna patrol in _this_?" Foggy pulls a face that looks like a damp firework sputtering out. "The likelihood for an insanity plea climbs higher every day."

Matt smothers a laugh in a grin. Foggy nudges Matt's shoulder with his own, and the damp firework settles to the warming orange of a homely hearth.

"That was my neighbor," Karen says, heading back. "Power's out in our block and the water's off." She sighs. "Maybe I can find a hotel for the night?"

"Matt's couch is always available," Foggy says. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

Matt throws a look at him, because he's literally only just mentioned going out to patrol.

"You can be quiet," Foggy says, moving in closer than he needs to in order to whisper it into Matt's ear. Matt squirms at the warmth of his breath on his skin.

"I couldn't impose—"

"Ridiculous," Matt says, because he probably will feel better knowing Karen is close. "You're always welcome."

"I'll stay over too," Foggy offers. "Sleepovers for the win."

"You're just scared to walk home in the dark and rain," Matt says.

"Also the slicing ice hail, that's offputting," Foggy says. He takes a low winded breath. "Also Brett told me not to go home just in case they go after my apartment. I may have neglected to mention that advice."

Matt and Karen both stare. Brett must have said it when Matt and Karen were bickering about Matt's actions.

"And what would you have done if I hadn't said you could stay?" Matt demands.

"Uh, you didn't say, I invited myself," Foggy says, spreading his arms wide. "And I probably would have still imposed myself on you anyway. Considering you're my friends with _benefits._ One of the benefits being free overnight stays whenever I want, obviously."

Karen giggles. "And amazing omelets, too."

"If you're angling for another one in the morning," Matt says, low like it's a warning, "then you'll probably get one, I'm soft and squishy inside like a marshmallow."

"That's why we love you," Foggy says, sing-song.

"Speak for yourself," Karen laughs. "But seriously, thank you. After the day we've had, I don't think I could sleep comfortably anywhere else. Just knowing you're both okay…" She shudders. "That's the most important thing to me right now."

And after that, Matt can't find it in him to protest any more.

#

The awkward part isn't in donning his uniform and sliding out of the small bedroom window to do his patrol. No, the awkward part is when they start to get ready for bed, and Foggy heads out to the couches with two sets of sheets, and Karen pushes him away.

"I'm a big girl," Karen says. "I'm not expecting you two to sleep apart just because I'm here. Don't pretend on my account."

Matt hides a grimace at the irony of that statement.

"Uh," Foggy says, clearly startled by the concept, and probably deeply uncomfortable, because he's only pretending for Matt's sake, and Foggy deserves someone so much better than Matt. "Sure, thanks Karen. We'll keep the—"

"Noise down?" Karen says, the amusement clear in her voice.

"Door closed," Foggy says, firmly, and that just makes Karen laugh out loud.

Matt offers his guests the spare toothbrushes he keeps under the sink and the three of them ready for bed in near silence. Matt can't help but track Foggy with his senses the whole time, keenly aware of the amount of space Foggy takes up by his side. Karen says goodnight and kisses them both on the cheek; she probably winks lasciviously at Foggy before heading out into the main area of Matt's apartment and closing the sliding door behind herself.

Foggy locks it, the warm space of his face brighter than usual as he discards the t-shirt and just climbs into Matt's bed in just his boxer shorts, like he belongs there.

"Silk sheets, I could get used to this," Foggy mutters. He slides deeper into Matt's sheets and makes a noise of approval, before turning onto his side and watching Matt slowly and methodically get into his suit. "Do you really have to go?"

Foggy sounds genuinely distressed, but that's because he's just worried about Matt's safety, not that he's disappointed he and Matt can't get their fake snuggling on.

"If I found out someone got hurt because I didn't bother looking I couldn't live with myself," Matt says, simply. He's aware of Foggy's eyes on him as he pulls the tight pants over his briefs.

"Ugh, morals," Foggy sighs. "I'll be here when you get back. But in the interim, if I've gotten engaged to your bedding, you cannot judge me."

"They are great sheets," Matt says, and turns around as he zips up his uniform. Foggy in his bed is not a sight Matt's going to erase from his brain any time soon. He's suddenly grateful that his suit is so restrictive, and he feels guilty. Foggy has no idea about his feelings, and it's not fair. Foggy is his friend and that means everything. Anything else can and should be discarded. "My senses, uh, cotton sheets can be too rough, it feels like...  _screaming_."

"Huh," Foggy says, and waggles his eyebrows. "Bet you've screamed enough in these sheets, huh?"

Matt's brain officially empties. Foggy snickers at him, hopefully thinking he's made Matt think of one of his tragic but hot ex-girlfriends.

"Go out there and protect the city, stud," Foggy says. "We'll still be here when you get back."

Matt nods wordlessly, and carefully shimmies out the window to do his patrol.

The weather is too bad. Matt swings by World Motors three times, keeping his senses sharp. The rain actually helps a lot, drenching the world in extra sharp points of detail. Matt almost wants to drag Foggy out into it so he can see his friend's face in better clarity, but Foggy would get sick in the cold rain, and that would be selfish. So much of what Matt wants with Foggy is selfish. Even being his friend is probably selfish, but Matt's too weak to push their friendship aside.

When he eventually realizes even the bad guys of Hell's Kitchen are taking the night off, he slopes back to his apartment, trying not to feel too reassured when he hears Karen and Foggy's gentle, sleep-light heartbeats from a few blocks away.

He climbs in through the window and lands as gently as he can, but Foggy's awake — maybe he wasn't asleep at all. Matt's fully aware of Foggy's eyes on his as he crosses the room to his closet and sheds the suit, pulling on a worn pair of sleep pants before padding across to the bed. Foggy's warmth is a beckoning expanse of light and Matt can feel it as he climbs awkwardly into his own bed and pulls the sheets up.

"Jeez, you're freezing," Foggy breathes, and inexplicably pulls Matt in closer to him. Matt yelps a little as Foggy shuffles him closer, crowding him with his heat. It's wrong. It's so wrong. Matt shouldn't let Foggy do this, not when Matt has feelings for him, because it's not a crush— It's _never_ been a crush. Matt's been in love with Foggy for years now, not exactly from their first meeting where Matt's brain had screeched _no homo_ in the voice of all the nuns from Saint Agnes' orphanage, but not long after that, when home because their increasingly terrible shared dorm rooms and home became Foggy's arm around him and Foggy's voice in his ear.

It's wrong, but Matt lets himself have this. _Just this once_ , he promises himself, and lets Foggy arrange him so Foggy's body is tucked around his and Foggy's arm is around his waist, tugging him in closer.

"You beat any bad guys up for me?" Foggy asks, his voice warm and sleep-rough.

"Nothing tonight," Matt says. "Guess evil took the night off."

"Well, evil had a busy morning, I suppose." Foggy's hand curls in, probably involuntarily, and his fingers graze Matt's stomach, and Matt's too busy concentrating on not getting aroused by the touch to realize the path Foggy's fingers are taking.

Matt's scars. Foggy's fingers have found Matt's scars, and he's tracking each one with his fingertips. His breaths are measured, but they're too measured — Foggy's conscious of the way he's breathing. Matt makes a noise when Foggy's fingers find a more recent mark, and Foggy presses his mouth to Matt's shoulder, a probably automatic response that makes Matt shudder.

"The number of times I nearly lost you and had no _idea,_ " Foggy breathes, and he's shaking, and, oh, Matt turns instinctively, because Foggy's upset, that's not bearable, Foggy's his foundation and if Foggy's unstable, Matt's lost.

"I'm fine," Matt breathes, "come on, Foggy. Here." He flattens down, Foggy's right hand curling in to the pillow, near Matt's head, and his left hand pressing down into the bed to the left of Matt's body. Matt reaches out and takes Foggy's hand and takes the first two fingers, pressing them to his neck. "Feel that?" With Foggy's fingers pressed to Matt's pulse, Matt's heartbeat sounds louder, mixing with Foggy's, filling Matt's ears with a quickening pulse of rhythm. "My heart's still beating strong. I'm fine. I'm here."

Foggy's staring at him, and he's not saying anything, and his fingers slide from Matt's pulse to his jaw line, tracing the edge, before moving down Matt's chest, lingering at each scar again. His breathing and his heartbeat hitch in almost unison and his shoulders are still shaking, but he holds himself over Matt and plots out each scar with trembling fingers. "It's never hit me how close to death you've been this year," Foggy breathes, "and I hate it— I hate it, Matt."

"I know," Matt says and shrugs helplessly. "I can't stop, though. I think about it, and I think about doing it because you've asked me, but I still— It would kill me, Foggy."

"I know, you're a self-sacrificial bastard," Foggy says, and it shouldn't sound as fond as it does. His hand settles over Matt's stomach, his thumb sweeping the scar from the hernia a few weeks ago, and he breathes, "Matt, oh god, I _can't_ lose you," in a tone that sounds like being gutted, being hollowed, and, then in a more desperate tone, he adds, "I _can't_ ," and then he's kissing Matt. Then _they're_ kissing, Matt surging up to meet him, a wave of emotion crashing through all of his senses and blinding him to everything but Foggy.

It's a fight. That's the beautiful part. Foggy crashes down, hands _everywhere_ , not trembling now, but possessive and warm and _certain,_ stroking across as much skin as he can reach but always gentling when he reaches the scars, his thumb smoothing the paths they make across Matt's body. And Matt feels guilty but he takes, and he takes, he can't _not,_ not when Foggy's offering him everything he's ever wanted. Maybe he should stop this, but he can't. This storm rages more strongly than the bad weather outside the apartment. It's a fire and Matt is consumed.

Foggy kisses in a way better than Matt's even imagined, demanding wet presses of lips to lips and exploratory little licks, darting out like a breathy promise before diving in, deep and claiming, and Matt's helpless to do more than hold on and moan directly into Foggy's mouth, because that's as loud as he can be with Karen in the next room. She's asleep, but oh, Matt's not sure enough of his resolve at this point to pay any more attention to anything but Foggy, and she could wake up at any time, so he has to be quiet, and he's a little resentful. He wants to know what noises Foggy makes when he's turned on and uninhibited by not being as alone as Matt suddenly and furiously wants them to be.

"I can't believe you're so fucking stupid all the time," Foggy mutters into Matt's ear, reaching down to tug Matt's pants down, frantic and not at all in control of his actions because it takes him four attempts before his fingers are sliding down the firm muscles of Matt's ass and the smooth slide of silk hits his bare skin. "Putting yourself between people and— and _guns,_ Matt. How many freaking bullet holes do you even have?"

"Some," Matt breathes, and shuts him up with his mouth, his hips surging upwards when Foggy manages to shed his boxers and their erections meet and Foggy hisses, which is probably the best noise in the whole world. "Barely any compared to how much I've been—" he struggles for air when Foggy reaches down to take them both in hand. "—how much I've been shot at."

Foggy blasphemes quietly, although whether that's at the idea of Matt being shot at, or for the sensation of Matt finally getting his hands on Foggy's ass, Matt doesn't know. He squeezes experimentally and Foggy curses again, so hopefully it's the latter.

"You feel so good," Matt says, because he can't help himself, and Foggy's grips on them tightens involuntarily.

"I feel good? You feel fucking _amazing,_ shit, Matt, what the hell, even. Why the hell haven't we been doing this for  _years_?"

In a fit of bravery Matt says, "I wanted to," and it's probably stupid, because they might have been able to erase this moment in a fit of madness, in a fit of adrenaline-inspired craziness, but Matt has to open his mouth and say something that belies just how long he's wanted Foggy, any way he can have him.

When Foggy says " _Shit,_ " and comes messily over the both of them, it's just the hottest thing that's ever happened to Matt. He doesn't let Foggy process, he just leans up and finds his mouth again, kissing him messily, coaxing Foggy into pressing him down into the mattress, his comforting weight being what finally pushes Matt over the edge too. When he eventually lets Foggy's lips go in favor of mouthing at the smooth expanse of his shoulder, Foggy snickers. "Oh my god, I gotta get worried about you more often if this is the thanks I get for it."

Matt doesn't respond. Doesn't want to speak. Doesn't want Foggy to have enough time to think and realize it's all ridiculous and he should be a million miles away from wherever Matt is. He sucks a mark into Foggy's collarbone, because he's probably a possessive weirdo at heart.

"Vampire," Foggy mutters, fondly. "Always knew your oral fixation would do me a solid one day."

"I don't have an oral fixation," Matt grumbles, before tracing Foggy's jaw line with some sucking kisses that make Foggy moan happily, and he reaches over to his side cabinet, groping gingerly until he finds the scent-free baby wipes. Foggy takes the hint and starts cleaning them up, realizing Matt's noisy water system might wake Karen up. Matt's going to smell like Foggy all week. It's probably going to be the most delightful kind of punishment that Matt's ever going to experience, because this is never going to happen again. Foggy's just overwhelmed by being attacked and Matt's taking advantage of him.

It's never going to happen again, but it's happening now, and Matt wants everything, five times over. The mistake's already happened. He reaches over and fumbles for one of the other things in his side cabinet.

"I think you broke my dick, dude," Foggy says, sounding sad and proud all at the same time. "I don't think I've come that hard before."

"Think you could get hard again?" Matt asks, still reaching into his drawer.

"I didn't, but then you said _hard_ and a part of my anatomy went _yes okay is now good?_ which is almost disturbing, I feel like a teenager again," Foggy says.

Matt hums under his breath, a couple of tuneless notes, and comes up with the goods. "Good," he says out loud, and flips the cap off the lube, squeezing some out and reaching down to prepare himself. It's really not going to take much; Matt's a combination of desperate, and desperate to feel as much of Foggy in as many ways as possible. He makes a noise at the coldness of the lube but he pushes in a finger, making another noise at that.

"I mean, it's gonna—" Foggy says, and then he swears colorfully, " _Matt,_ " he says, when he's done cursing, "are you—"

Foggy freaks out if you give him enough time and Matt's not going to give him enough time. "I'd like you to," Matt says. "If you think you can and you want to. Otherwise you're welcome to lie back and admire the view."

"Uh—" Foggy says, and the fire of the lines of his body spark brighter. He's nearly convinced.

"C'mon, Foggy," Matt says, and lets his eyes scrape across the intent flames of Foggy's face. He lands the stinging blow. "I need you in me. I need to know you're alive."

After a pause, Foggy says, "You better have condoms in that drawer of yours or I swear to god I'm going to implode." It's a decision. And he might be aiming for jovial but his voice is low, rough, and he kisses Matt in punctuation with a gentleness that makes Matt's body spasm around his own questing finger.

"Sounds good," Matt half-laughs, drawing Foggy in closer with his thighs as he reaches with his spare hand to throw a wrapped condom at Foggy's chest. "Get one on and get in me already."

"You are going to be the death of me, Matt Murdock," Foggy breathes, and Matt hides his noise of devastation on hearing that by kissing Foggy again, insistent and unrelenting, not letting up until Foggy is in him, stuttering into his depths with frantic, desperate movement. Everywhere their bodies meet burns up into raging heat and flame and Matt surrenders himself to the fire, giving himself into nothing but feeling. His world for this night is nothing but Foggy, and Matt is lost.

#

The upside of sex is that it tends to knock Matt out pretty thoroughly. The downside is that it knocks him out pretty thoroughly. It's almost seven o' clock by the time Matt wakes up. Normally he likes to go out at five for another patrol of the city. He moves his face in Foggy's direction and his whole body flushes at the memory of Foggy's white light pushed up against him, enveloping and consuming him. He wants to wake Foggy up and do it all over again, but once Foggy wakes up, he'll probably freak out and shut down and not talk about it ever again. Maybe it's for the best.

He's sore, though, and when he stretches to sit up, Foggy makes a grumbling noise and follows him up. Foggy is distinctly not a morning person and Matt is so grateful for that, because it means he gets a few minutes to play along with the fairytale, to imagine that Foggy can be his and they're waking up together after years of being together in all the ways Matt has imagined, not a one-off mistaken hook-up.

Foggy doesn't wake up usually until he's had some coffee, so Matt takes advantage of that, slipping Foggy some clean clothes and pushing the ones he'd worn under his pillows. Foggy's scent will take a while to leave Matt's bed and if he's going to be a pining weirdo anyway, he might as well give in to it and make it last as long as possible. Matt slides the door open and Karen's still asleep, cocooned in Matt's blankets, so he turns back to put his finger on his lips. Foggy nods and follows him out, them both tiptoeing.

"Breakfast?" Matt whispers, feeling like the one innocent word is probably going to break the spell they seem to be under. Foggy's face bobs up and down - a nod.

"Yeah, that would be good," Foggy whispers back, his tone subdued, and Matt turns away so Foggy can't see his expression. It's already starting to be awkward, but then, Matt Murdock is kind of the King of Fucking Up. Still, Foggy follows him, hovering in his orbit, turning on the coffee maker at the wall while Matt slides in a new flavor pod, and shuffling to join Matt at the open fridge.

"What do you want?" Matt asks.

"Uh," Foggy says, and then, squaring his shoulders says, "it depends on what you want."

Matt freezes. Because that— maybe they're not talking about breakfast foods at this moment. He forces himself to take a deep breath. "I'm not good at saying what I want," Matt says.

"It's just breakfast," Foggy says, weakly. "Stand aside, let me look."

Matt does what he says because he probably always will, as long as Foggy's not asking him to give up being Daredevil. "I don't have much available," Matt says.

Foggy makes a noise. "You have so much available. So much more than I do. I mean, in my fridge. There's not a lot inside. Maybe some expired condiments and some fancy foreign beer. And the fridge itself is not that great— I mean, it's been beat up some. No bullet holes, but man, some sucker punch scars that aren't exactly pretty to look at."

Matt blinks, because— he's heard this sort of thing from Foggy before. Not in a weirdly extended fridge metaphor, but the same low self esteem rant that baffles him completely, because Foggy is amazing, and how can he not know?"

"Are we still talking about breakfast?" Matt asks, in a low voice. He moves in closer. Foggy freezes, feeling Matt's presence right as his back.

"You know we're not," Foggy says, miserable. "But if you— if you don't want breakfast— if breakfast was just a temporary whim because yesterday freaked you out, let me know. Break that egg fast, y'know, so it has time to… bake itself into a custard or something."

He sounds like— and Matt can barely believe what he's hearing. It sounds almost like Foggy thinks _Matt_ will regret last night, that maybe Matt doesn't want breakfast— that Matt doesn't want _Foggy_ every single day, and that's about the stupidest thing he's ever freaking heard in his life.

"Foggy," Matt says, disbelieving.

Foggy doesn't understand Matt's tone because he turns to face Matt then. He lifts his chin, a spark of steady fire, determination setting in. "Last night," Foggy says, and it's awkward, and it's the worst tone Matt's ever heard in his life, but hope washes in over the top of everything, and right now Matt's sure his actions can't make it worse, but maybe— Maybe he can make it  _better_. The hope overwhelms and Matt leans in and kisses him against the open fridge.

The way Foggy kisses him back instantly, insistently, sparks the hope higher and gives Matt the hope to believe that maybe Foggy's as into Matt as much as the reverse. He's never let himself think it before, not really, because Foggy's amazing.

"I don't deserve you," Matt whispers, and Foggy makes an embarrassingly loud noise of arousal, dragging Matt back in to continue the kiss, and Matt lets himself believe.

"Ooh, that looks like a nice way to say good morning," Karen says from behind them, and Matt freezes and Foggy's head jolts back, smacking into the uppermost fridge shelf. "Don't stop on my account, boys."

"Oh," Foggy says, quiet, _disappointed,_ and then louder says, "Good morning, Karen."

"Is it okay if I use the bathroom?" Karen asks.

"Sure," Matt says, holding still, feeling anxious suddenly in a way he can't explain.

"I see, that was for Karen," Foggy says, as soon as the bathroom door closes, and he tries to shuffle out of the way, but Matt grabs for Foggy's wrist, desperate for him to know. Foggy turns back to Matt, a cloud of fire around his face, but Matt reaches out for Foggy's face, thumb stroking his cheek, and he stares at Foggy's fire like hopefully he'll understand. Matt needs Foggy to understand. That wasn't for show. For a moment Foggy remains frozen and stilted under Matt's touch but then he leans into it with a whimper.

"You'd better not be fucking with me, Matt," Foggy says, his voice thin but raggedly hopeful in a way Matt can identify fully with.

"Nope," Matt says lightly. "Just fucking you. Hopefully."

"I guess turnabout is fair play," Foggy says, just as lightly, and then he makes another noise and moves in closer, and Matt reaches back for him, just as desperately, and they're clinging to each other in the middle of his apartment, bodies pushed together as much as they can be while they're clothed. "I never even thought— I never even _let_ myself think that you'd—"

"Same," Matt breathes. "And I've— I've wanted to so _much,_ but I thought you wouldn't—"

" _I_ wouldn't? You're perfect, Matt. Literally walking human perfection. And I'm—"

"—being utterly stupid if you think you're anything but everything I've always wanted," Matt says, and picks up Foggy's right hand between both of his before pressing a careful kiss into his palm. Foggy makes a happy noise, sounding so delighted that Matt knows he's grinning like a wild thing. Matt's hands feel sweaty and the moment feels _monumental_ and that's probably why it happens then.

Karen screams and the whole world goes dull.

Matt drops to the floor, hands over his ears, and he reaches out automatically to grab Foggy. Something's come into the room, some sort of gas, and it's messing with Matt's senses like crazy. He reaches out with his senses trying to understand but the images that come back and like trying to listen to radio on a spotty internet signal - the noise comes through fractured and disjointed.

Matt takes the pieces and joins them together enough to realize there are eight men in the room that have guns, and they've been disadvantaged by the smoke as much as they have, which gives Matt enough time to try and act.

"This way," Matt hisses in Foggy's ear as Foggy chokes and is slow to respond. Matt bodily handles him and together they move in a stumble over to the window. "Climb out and _run,_ I'm going back for Karen."

"Like hell you are," Foggy hisses and whimpers when Matt lets go of him to fight two of the guys that have come up close to them. The sound of gunfire fills the air and fury washes over Matt.

"Just  _go_ ," Matt hisses, and shoves Foggy out of the fire escape window. He doesn't think there's anyone outside — clearly the goons thought eight men against the three of them was enough. He hisses and moves into action, his senses sharpening, which is bad - it means the smoke is clearing, which means he'll be seen and getting him and Karen out is going to be much harder.

He moves at full speed for the two nearest goons, dispatching one with a hit to the throat and one with a solid kick to the solar plexus, and he thinks he's going to make it all right, but then one of the guys at the farthest end of the room raises a gun, and Matt doesn't have a choice - it'll leave his flank vulnerable, but if he doesn't move now for the guy with the gun, he or Karen will get shot, and it'll most likely be Karen.

Matt runs as fast as he can, leaping at the guy with the gun, pushing him out of the way quickly enough for the bullet to harmlessly hit the ceiling, but the move makes him as vulnerable as he feared, because he manages to sense someone moving up behind him, but something comes down hard on his head and everything goes dark.

#

Matt's voice comes back online before any of his other senses. Well. That's a lie. His pain receptors are working at a hundred percent. That's always good to know, Matt thinks sourly.

"Ouch," he says. It's a melodramatic understatement. He thinks he can feel a broken rib. Hopefully it hasn't punctured anything important inside him.

His senses sputter back into work, but only slightly, enough for him to hear Karen's heartbeat next to him. She's awake and taking slow, measured breaths, and she's shuffling, like she's trying to undo a wrist tie.

Matt's wrists are bound together too, he realizes. His head pounds unmercifully.

He can't hear Foggy's heartbeat. That's either a good sign or a bad sign.

"Well I guess the liar's awake," Karen mutters, and Matt makes another confused noise of pain. "What's the matter, Matt, can't see that I'm clearly directing that at you?"

"I don't know what you mean," Matt says. "Karen, where's Foggy?"

"Like you can't see he's not here," Karen hisses.

Matt jerks his face in her direction. "I haven't got time for whatever weird thing you're on about. Tell me. Where's Foggy. And who has us."

"Foggy's not here," Karen says. "Which I'm sure you can see."

"I have no idea what you're going on about," Matt says, helplessly.

"That gun," Karen hisses. "You saw the damn gun. There's no other reason for how you managed to go _straight_ for the guy that almost fricking shot me, Matt. Why the fuck would you lie about something like  _this,_ huh? Get a kick out of lying to people?"

"Karen—"

"There's four guys with guns here," Karen sighs. "I don't know who they work for. And _these_ fuckfaces won't tell me anything."

Now she's said it, Matt can almost feel the guys, brief sparks of light around a wide perimeter. There's a cool breeze and a tang to the air like the Hudson is near. They're probably in one of Hell's Kitchen many and explicably empty warehouses, then. The pain ebbs a little and he wills it to go away quicker. Pain is blinding in all the worst ways.

"I can't see," Matt says, falteringly. "I heard the gun."

"Bullshit."

"I did," Matt says. "I know you don't believe me, but—"

"Where did you get that impression?" Karen says, huffing an unamused laugh.

"Look, it's—" Matt sighs. "Bad choice of word." He lowers his voice. "I can't see in the traditional sense. But there's… I feel things."

"Like a gun from across the other side of the room?"

Matt clenches his teeth together for a moment. This part of the story is never easy to tell. He wriggles experimentally, starting to work himself free of the rope while still looking casual. "I feel things like balance and direction. It's like there are micro-changes in vibrations and air density, it forms a kind of blanket of temperature variations. And then I can hear some things and smell others… It combines to a kind of… It's like the whole world is an impressionistic painting."

"Matt," Karen breathes. "That's— it's difficult to believe."

"Believe me, I know," Matt says. "But the world to me… I see it, but all it looks like is… It looks like the whole world is on fire." He shrugs uselessly. "I'm sorry. It's difficult to explain to people."

"Difficult to explain, sure," Karen says. "But why wouldn't you try? Why would you just lie to me?"

"I think I understand," a voice says, and a figure steps through fully into the warehouse from a distant door and oh god, Matt's the biggest idiot in the world. He feels stupid, but not because he didn't sense there was a fifth guy in the area— but because the fifth guy is the Masked Marauder. The fifth guy is Frank Farnum. And that's why Matt's never been able to find the Masked Marauder easily in his fights with him. Farnum has a pacemaker. They mask people for him, he knows that, but he's never thought of connecting the thought to the Masked Marauder. If he'd stopped for even a moment in his fights with the Marauder to sense for a pacemaker, Matt would have figured Farnum out months ago.

"He lies to you to protect the man in the mask," Farnum says.

"If your world on fire doesn't tell you, I think that's the Masked Marauder," Karen says.

"Oh, not to protect me," Farnum says, sounding amused. "I forgot he has a new name in this city. I presume your Mr. Murdock lies to you in order to protect the devil of Hell's Kitchen."

"Matt?" Karen asks.

Matt's stomach tightens. "I don't know what you think you know—" Matt starts.

Farnum laughs under his breath. "I know that your Mr. Nelson has been around a good number of crime sites after the Daredevil has been seen there. He was at the World Motors Building but conveniently disappeared in time for Daredevil to attack my criminals, and when I came to see you last week, he was replicating the same words the Daredevil used to attack some of my beloved employees. And when I sent goons to attack your office, and the police say Daredevil took them out, I had men watching your building - no one came in and no one came out."

"Matt?" Karen prompts again. "What's he talking about?"

"Oh, I think Murdock knows what I'm talking about," Farnum says, sounding pleased. "And he suspects the same thing I do - Nelson won't let his friends suffer, and when he comes, I'll be able to finally stop Daredevil and avenge my brother's death."

"Wilson Fisk got your brother killed," Matt hisses.

"Well, maybe, but would Fisk have done it if Daredevil hadn't ruined his plans?" Farnum shrugs expansively. "No, Daredevil will come to save his friends. You two make such beautiful bait."

"Is he— is he saying _Foggy_ is— is Daredevil?" Karen makes a choking noise. "I don't think— I mean, it doesn't make a lot of sense— It makes _some_ sense—" She trails off. "You mean I went on a _date_ with Daredevil? And that time when we were chasing Fisk and you both said you'd met Daredevil— did you— How long have you _known_ Foggy's Daredevil? And the other day!" She continues before Matt can get a word in edgewise. "You shut the door in my face deliberately so Foggy could go ninja bad-ass on the bad guys without me seeing…"

"I did not!" Matt says, with the conviction only honesty can muster.

"You're kidding me, I actually went on a date with Daredevil. He's a savior. I'm thrilled. I'm pissed off, but I'm thrilled. Wow."

"Uh, no, Miss. Page. Daredevil is nothing to be thrilled about," Farnum says. "He's a terrorist."

"Speak for yourself," Karen says.

Matt's managed to half get out of the rope binding his wrists and he formulates as best a plan as he's got, but unless there's a distraction, the chances of him and Karen getting hurt are astronomically large. He racks his brain for a distraction, and reaches out with his senses, slowly growing back to full strength, and he freezes for a moment — because he knows that heartbeat.

"No, no," he murmurs under his breath. Karen looks at him sharply. There's another heartbeat beyond Foggy's distinctive _bump-bump_ but if it's friend or foe, Matt doesn't know. Maybe it's Brett? Hopefully Foggy brought back-up? Or maybe it's another of Farnum's goons? Matt feels stretched by the panic and tension, as worried as he's ever been about anything before.

And of course Foggy doesn't do the sensible thing and run away for more help, even if there's a good reason for him being at the warehouse as it is. He opens the door and spreads his arms wide. "Guys, did you start this party without me?"

"Ah, Mr. Nelson," Farnum greets.

"Ah, Mr. Marauder," Foggy says. "Or can I call you just _Masked_?"

"Maybe just call him Frank," Matt offers. Farnum seems nonplussed for a moment, but makes a snarling noise and gestures at his goons to move towards Foggy.

"Thanks for giving me the invitation," Foggy says. "Did wonder how you knew where my apartment was, but I guess it's on our office lease, huh?"

Two of Farnum's goons move in to bracket Foggy and there's a spark of light around his head - he's smiling widely. What the hell is he thinking? Matt wriggles his wrists more. He's nearly out. But with one more person to protect, Matt's got zero chance of coming out of this alive. Well, it's better him than Foggy or Karen. He grits his teeth and works more on freeing himself.

"I developed this opti-blaster especially for you, Daredevil," Farnum says to Foggy, and lifts a hand to a device on his head. "I hope you like it."

Farnum twists a knob on his opti-blaster and a burst of lightning heads towards Foggy and Foggy falls to the floor with a sickening noise of pain that makes Matt's world of fire turn blood red. He snarls and yanks more ferociously at the ropes, letting the thick texture score through the skin on his wrists.

Foggy's in pain, but he's also laughing. Matt's confused, until Foggy manages to get himself together enough to say, loudly, tauntingly, "Please, like I didn't bring back up." He wheezes in pain.

And then the warehouse lights go out.

Matt moves immediately into action, yanking himself free and aiming straight for the nearest goon. In the dark, there's nothing and no one equal to him. Farnum responds immediately to the sound of Matt's fists in action, and tries to opti-blast him, but all he does is hit one of his own goons full in the face, and it's satisfying for Matt to take down Farnum and his men.

It's equally satisfying to smash Farnum full in the face, shattering the opti-blaster into pieces, before sliding back into his seat and looping his hands into the rope just in time for the lights to splutter back on.

Karen glances at Matt, and then over to where Foggy is still rolling on the floor clutching at his eyes.

"This thing fucking hurts," Foggy whines. "What the holy hell?"

"Did I really hear language like that?" a voice asks from the doorway, a familiar figure poking his head through.

Matt laughs in relief. The heartbeat accompanying Foggy to the warehouse had definitely been a friend. "I could use some help over here, Father. Karen and I are a little tied-up."

"You young folk, always so busy," Father Lantom sighs.

"I'd agree but I'm too busy rolling around in pain," Foggy whimpers. "How long until this thing wears off?"

"I don't understand," Karen says, after Lantom frees her and goes to work on freeing Matt; Father Lantom shoots a disapproving glance at Matt which looks like a low-powered flashlight and makes a song and dance over taking the ropes from Matt's wrists that are only there for show. "He said you were Daredevil, and—" she glances around at the unconscious villains, "—I could absolutely _swear_ Daredevil had saved us, but—"

"I'm definitely, 100% not Daredevil," Foggy says. "I promise and pinky-swear and oh my god my eyes hurt like someone stabbed me in them, holy shit."

"And God continues to send me sinners to try my patience," Father Lantom sighs.

"Sorry, Father L. Thanks for coming to help me save my friends," Foggy says.

"I'll call the cops," Father Lantom says. "You three try not to be kidnapped again while I'm gone?"

"We'll try," Matt says. "Thanks."

Father Lantom nods and shuffles outside, holding his cell phone up like he's having to manually sweep for a phone signal.

"So you're definitely not Daredevil," Karen says, prodding at Foggy.

"Ow," Foggy says, slowly letting Matt pull him up to a sitting position and then to his feet. He wavers unsteadily and decides clinging onto Matt is a good way to stay upright. Matt approves. "I promise you, I am _definitely_ not Daredevil. And if I was, I don't think coming in and getting blasted fully in the eyes was the best career move."

"Yeah," Karen agrees, and she reaches forward, grabbing them both in a hug, before pulling back, a soft smell of her tears reaching Matt's nostrils. He thinks he can identify. "Guys, our lives are  _weird_."

"Tell me about it," Father Lantom grunts, shuffling back in to join them. "Thank goodness it's the police that are going to have to untangle what's happened here."

"Yeah," Foggy says. "They're gonna love us."

"They'd be mad not to," Matt says quietly. Foggy turns his face to Matt's, his expression a combination of hearth warmth and firefly brightness, and if he clings a little tighter, well—

Well, Matt would have said _nobody_ would notice or care, but as the police start to lead them away, Brett sighing louder than Matt's ever heard him sigh, Father Lantom shuffles in closer.

"I'll expect you in confession as soon as possible, boy," Father Lantom says quietly. "Especially for—" And he gestures at the way Foggy is clamped onto Matt like a limpet.

Matt tries to look contrite, but his smile is much too wide to hide.

#

It turns out the opti-blaster did a ton of damage to Foggy's eyes, damage that will heal, but he's going to be in hospital for a couple of days to fix it. That proves to Karen he really isn't Daredevil, which is probably for the best.

Matt's forced to stop hovering by Foggy's side because he isn't related to him, and to distract him, Karen makes him come to the office with her, to fix it up after the goon fight and get the work flowing again so Foggy had something good to come back to.

Karen snips the yellow tape and locks the door behind her, and she starts straightening the furniture. Matt carefully bends down and starts to pick up the paper. Now Karen sort of knows about his world on fire he doesn't have to be so careful about hiding it, so he moves with faster speed than he might have.

She doesn't look at him when she starts talking, choosing instead to start tidying up the contents of her desk, knocked askew by the goons and the police after them. "You know, Matt," Karen says, in a conversational tone, "it's funny how the Masked Marauder's opti-blaster hit Foggy and blinded him, but they didn't affect Daredevil one bit."

Matt freezes for a moment, flinching, but forces himself to keep his face turned away from her and he methodically keeps picking up the paper. The police had agreed their rescuer was probably Daredevil. Nothing else made sense. "Mm," he agrees. "Funny. Superheroes and their super powers, huh?"

Karen laughs under her breath. "Don't tell Foggy he doesn't have super powers. He'd cry."

"Like a baby," Matt agrees. It's nice to hear her laughing. If she's happy, then she's not angry, and Matt much prefers her happy.

"It's definitely funny," Karen repeats, and she's almost cautious with her words when she continues, "it's almost like Daredevil is blind."

Matt's shoulders tighten. He straightens up from the floor but busies himself with the papers, straightening them out into a pile on the nearest upright chair. "Mm," he agrees, as casually as he can. "You're right, that is funny."

"And Farnum thought Foggy was Daredevil," Karen says. "But Foggy was down at that point. He never had the opportunity to take down Farnum without me noticing."

"No," Matt says, his gut tightening in wary anticipation.

Karen keeps moving things on her desk, carefully, casually. "But you did."

Matt swallows. "I guess so."

"A blind lawyer as a ninja vigilante, though. That would be crazy talk," Karen says.

Matt does his best not to freeze as he focuses his senses pin-sharp on her face, expecting to see something of the same expression of betrayal that had haunted Foggy like a clinging fog for weeks and weeks after finding out the truth, but instead, there's a sweep of motion at the side of Karen's mouth, a different expression threatening.

"Yeah," he says, and the sweep of motion flames a trail of a smile that even Matt can see. "Yeah, it would be pretty damn crazy."

"Good thing I'm too fond of not being 5150'd. Because saying _my blind boss is a superhero_ would make that happen."

"I'm not—" Matt blurts, but it's the _superhero_ part he's balking at.

"Sure you're not," Karen says warmly, coming around the desk to press a warm kiss to his cheek.

Matt allows himself one moment and he grins at her cheekily, just one moment with them both clear and knowing the truth. "I promised to keep you safe, Karen. I always will."

"And I promise to keep you safe, too," Karen says. Matt's grin drops into something more serious. "People could do a lot with Daredevil's identity. They did a lot without knowing it for sure. I wouldn't do that to you."

"Thank you."

"No, Matt," Karen says. "Hell's Kitchen should be thanking _you._ "

"It does that every day," Matt says, shrugging. He moves his senses out towards the window, out to the city beyond. "By waking up every day and going to work and moving step by step to the place it was when I was a kid, before aliens came down from the sky and tried to tear us apart. Every time someone does something to make the city great again, that's all the thanks I'll ever need."

"You're something else, Matt Murdock," Karen says. "I'm proud to be able to call you my friend."

Matt's grin resurfaces. He feels like he's going to be smiling a lot in the future. Karen and Foggy should probably get used to seeing it more.

#

When Matt climbs back into his apartment at three o' clock in the morning, fresh from a very successful patrol, he only startles for the moment at the heartbeat permeating his apartment.

Mostly because it's the heartbeat he knows better than his own.

He locks the window and sheds his uniform quickly, before sliding into bed with an unmistakable grin of satisfaction.

Foggy's there. In his bed. Just like he's always wanted.

"The hospital let me go home, but alas, their plan was foiled. It turns out Farnum kind of trashed my place," Foggy says.

"So you broke in here?"

"Ahuh," Foggy says. "I figured it would be okay."

" _Definitely_ okay," Matt says, deviating to briefly brush his teeth before hurrying in and sliding into his bed. "Karen knows, by the way."

"Ah, the perils of hiring smart people," Foggy sighs. "How'd she take it?"

"Well, I think? She said she was proud."

"Aw, you're actually blushing, Matt," Foggy says. "I'm jealous. Come over here so I can try and be the one to make that happen."

"You do that every day just by existing in my general direction," Matt says, wriggling to get comfortable. He fails, until Foggy manhandles him and tugs him into the welcoming curve of his body. He seems to be fond of making Matt the little spoon. Matt's not going to complain any time soon.

"Mm, I plan to keep doing that for a very long time," Foggy says, pulling Matt even closer, settling an arm around his stomach. Matt shivers. He's probably never going to be over this actually happening.

"A very long time, huh?" Matt asks, barely hoping to believe it.

"I did propose eternal love to your sheets last time I was here. It would be rude not to stay forever. I'm not that kind of guy."

Matt pinches him and Foggy squeals.

"Hurting an injured man? How could you, Murdock, I  _object_."

"Oh my god, never use legal language while we're in bed," Matt says, mortified. "I cannot go into court with your speeches giving me erections in front of the jury."

"I am _so sorely tempted_ right now," Foggy says.

Matt makes a noise.

"I'll be good," Foggy promises. "Rumor has it there's a big bad grumpy Daredevil in town who could beat me up if I was evil, anyway."

"There absolutely is," Matt says. "I heard he dresses head to toe in red leather. A man does that, means he's a man that means business."

"I heard he's totally shredded and has an eight-pack," Foggy says.

"That's your quoting voice. What the hell are you quoting?"

Foggy laughs. "I'll tell you in the morning."

"Why not now?" Matt asks, feeling a little sleepy.

"I have plans for now."

"Plans?" Matt asks. One of Foggy's hands drift lower, and the sleepiness dissipates. "Oh, those plans. Yeah, I— I think I can live with that sort of plan."

Foggy presses a pleased smile into Matt's shoulder. He can't see it, can't see any of the sparkling lights that make up Foggy's brightest smiles, but he can feel the wide pleasing curve of it, right down to his bones. And even though Foggy can't see it, Matt returns the smile, the emotion behind it brighter and warmer than his world on fire.

 

#

[ [missing scene](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/61059463) ]


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